


Wits and Beauty by Sansaspride

by AzraelGFG



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Human Sacrifice, King of the Ashes, Magic, Older Man/Younger Woman, Politics, Queen in the North, Smut, War, Winterfell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 23:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 49
Words: 92,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15673152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AzraelGFG/pseuds/AzraelGFG
Summary: Sansa Stark grew up dreaming of songs and knights, but that dream was broken long ago.Chaos is a ladder.Together, Lord Baelish and Sansa plot their way from the Vale to Winterfell to Harrenhalto the Iron Throne.





	1. The Bastard Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Hello whoever reads this. This story isn't mine. This was the first fanfic I read though and it opened this large world of awesome stories for me. Sansaspride deleted her AO3 account for private reasons not long ago with all her stories, but she allowed me to post this story so it doesnt get lost forever. I hope you enjoy the story like I did back in the days.
> 
> I'll keep all original Chapter notes etc. so it doesnt change in any way from the original. Everything beyond this point belongs to Sansaspride!
> 
>  
> 
> New writer! I've shipped Sansa and Petyr as my OTP since Season 3 when I first  
> started watching the show.  
> This is my take on how I want the books/show to end for these two. So enjoy! And  
> give me feedback =)

_There’s a dead girl inside me, I can feel her rattling around._

  
_Her lungs choked with loss, heart pounding like wardrums._

  
_She had a laugh like summer’s rain, until the world tore it away._

  
_Oh, there’s a dead girl, inside me. I’m the one who killed her._

  
Sansa sat at an alcove overlooking the mountains of the Eyrie, contemplating. The wind whistled  
through cracks in the windows, chilling her slightly. She pulled her cloak around herself more  
tightly. If someone passed by, they might have thought she looked sad, a princess waiting for  
someone to restore her to better days. Perhaps, a knight to rescue her. But, that girl was dead.  
What was born in Sansa Stark was a cool, deadly resolution. No longer could she be the girl  
moved by songs and fancy knights. The world had changed her, corrupted her. _My heart is lost,_  
_the beasts have eaten it_. The lions, she thought. She no longer envied smiling young ladies,  
oblivious of the way the world operated. Too sheltered to understand the reality of how everything  
worked—and what game they all lived in.

  
She had been called to Lord Baelish’s solar in an hours’ time. Once, she had wondered if he was  
her protector or her lover. Now, she understood—he was both. He was both Lord Petyr and Lord  
Littlefinger. Warm and funny; yet conniving and deadly. Who could possibly trust him? Yet, she  
knew there was no one else who she understood as well as him. And he understood her, and what  
she wanted. And she understood the mask he wore, similar to her own.

  
_Alayne Stone_ , she whispered. A _bastard girl_. She laughed. If only they all knew who she really  
was, what she had become. Perhaps, then Queen Cersei would take off that price on her head. Oh,  
but Sansa was coming for them all. Her and Lord Baelish. Chaos is a ladder, and she had long  
since decided she would climb it with him.


	2. The Last Stark

Sansa made her way down the drafty corridor and entered Lord Petyr’s solar. “No knock,  
sweetling?” he glanced up as she strode in and smiled. She smirked at him and paused in step.  
“Why should I my lord, when you and I share no secrets?” She crossed the room and stood before  
him, standing just far enough apart for him to admire her. He looked her in the eye, smile playing  
at the corner of both their lips, then strong arms reached and pulled her into his lap.

  
She settled comfortably, wrapping her arms around his back and resting her head against his. He  
smells of mint and Arbor Gold. Once Sansa had asked Lord Petyr why men drank so much.  
“Because it gives some men courage,” he responded. “And does it give you courage?” but she  
had known the answer. Lord Petyr was not Tyrion. He did not need wine to soothe his nerves or  
make his day more bearable. This man was dangerous. _Perhaps, the most dangerous man in the_  
 _country_. And wine would not help his quick wit and sharp mind as he plotted, thinking ahead of  
the next moves he should make. Who he could use to destroy create an alliance, or indeed an  
enemy. Yet, Sansa was not afraid of him. She never could be. _He saved me. Smuggled me out_  
 _while he had the chance_. But he could kill. He proved that when he pushed Aunt Lysa out the  
moon door, falling thousands of feet before her body shattered below. All because she threatened  
me. Yet, Sansa knew it was not only that. Aunt Lysa was just a pawn in the game, a piece needed  
to secure his hold as Lord of the Vale. He was the most cunning and devious man in the seven  
kingdoms, and he was all hers.

  
“Why so quiet, sweetling?” Petyr moved his head from underneath Sansa’s and turned her face  
towards his, grey eyes staring into her Tully blue ones. She held his gaze, face stoic.

 

“My lord, you called me into your solar. I cannot help but wonder why.”

  
He laughed. “My lady, this is hardly the time of day to warrant questions of why. But so I did.”  
He gently pushed her off his lap, and moved towards the window, Sansa taking his place on the  
armchair and draping her legs across.

  
He stared out the window, watching the snow fall. “It won’t be long before warmer weather  
moves in, and we can be ready to make our next move. Once, House Baelish had no lands, no  
name, and no gold. Now, we have quite a lot of each. I am Lord of the Vale and Harrenhall, Lord  
of the Trident and former Master of Coin. I have minted money out of thin air. Brothels. Silk.  
Wine. There is no better in the Crownlands. I can buy out any man. I have my power, sweetling.  
But perhaps, it is not enough without yours.”

  
Sansa smiled. _She knew_ , he did not need to tell her. All her life, people wanted her for her pretty  
face and her name. Yet, they all wanted to use her. This was different—Lord Baelish was her ally,  
her equal. Still, she asked innocently, as if they had not spoke of this many times before, “my  
power?”

  
He chuckled, and moved back towards the armchair where she lay draped across. He watched her  
as he poured two cups of wine, and handed her a cup before sitting on the desk across from her.  
“What did you once tell me? ‘If I am ever a queen, I’ll make them love me.’ And who has a  
kinder heart than you, sweetling? Who has suffered and endured more hardships than you? A girl  
from the North, with so many dreams and songs to sing, a family who loved her more than  
anything, thrown into the chaos of court. Her mother, father and brothers dead. A sister who  
disappeared without a trace. Abuse and torment at the hands of a king she was engaged to, who  
broke her heart. Yet, I have no doubt, a queen you shall be.”

  
Sansa smiled up at him, cradling her cup of wine. “Cersei believed fear kept the people in check,  
yet admiration is a far more valuable tool. Lady Margaery employed it quite well when she  
showered food and blessings upon the people of King’s Landing. They adored her. She had a lot  
more intelligence and charm than Cersei, and yet she is dead.” Sansa frowned, the dead girl inside  
her was rattling again. It pained her to think of Margaery, dead long before her time. _Cersei killed_  
 _her_. Blamed her for Joffrey’s death. All the Tyrells were slaughtered. She shuddered. _A house_  
 _destroyed, just like the Starks. But, the wolves will come again._

  
“Admiration is a fine trait indeed. But, you’re right it could not save them. No amount of love  
could save Ser Loras and Lady Margaery when the High Sparrow found them guilty of their sins.  
And Cersei is plummeting further and further into darkness. How long before her sins are  
exposed? And do not forget, Lady Olenna is still alive and vengeful. Perhaps, I shall send her a  
gift, something to comfort her in her time of mourning for her grandchildren and a house destined  
to collapse with no heirs.” He leaned back, assessing her. She held his gaze when she spoke.

  
“With your wits, and my beauty the world will be ours. And you and I both know I have  
something else to bring into the game—loyalty. Thousands of men loyal to my dead brother’s  
cause. Men who were robbed of an honourable and just Warden, only to be replaced with the  
banner of the flayed man. Men who would kill to see the Boltons fall. Men who would flock to  
another Stark.”

  
She placed her cup on the floor and slowly stood, never taking her eyes off him. She closed the  
small gap between them, and gathered his face in her hands. “ _The last surviving Stark_ ,” she  
whispered. “The blood of Winterfell, of Lord Eddard and Lady Catelyn. A wolf who will inspire  
loyalty and admiration, and behind her a _cunning mockingbird_ leading the way to victory.”

  
Lord Petyr grabbed her waist, and began to kiss her passionately. Sansa felt her heart swell, as he  
stood and the kiss became more heated. She kissed him back with a fiery passion and he lifted her  
up, as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Lips still locked, he walked them into the  
bedchamber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think of my take on Sansa! My intention is to make her loss  
> some of her goodness and innocence so she can become a bit of an ice queen and  
> play the game alongside Peytr. Feedback appreciated =)


	3. Pleasures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead!

She understood how important it was for her to stay a virgin, or at least to give the impression she  
was one. Petyr agreed with her. By portraying herself as a virgin, it not only made her more  
desirable in the eyes of lords who may want to see the heir of Winterfell ally with their house in  
the form of matrimony, but it added to her image of innocence and purity. A symbol of honour  
and duty. Yet, this was not so.

  
She had given herself to Lord Petyr months ago, not long after his trial. She had lied for him,  
claiming her aunt committed suicide. And her innocence and good will had won over the Lords  
Declarant to their side. Of course to them, she was his faithful daughter. The bastard daughter of a  
lord and a Bravosi gentlewoman.

  
Yet, as Petyr dropped her on the bed, eyes reveling in every inch of her, none of it mattered. Not  
the Lords Declarant. Not the game. Not politics or war or courtesy. She was Sansa and he was  
Petyr, and their masks melted off.

  
He removed his dagger belt and doublet, letting it fall to the floor. She began unlacing her dress,  
before his deft and experienced fingers joined her. Petyr began kissing her again, and her heart  
started beating faster, as he pulled off her dress, leaving her in only her shift. Sansa’s hands moved  
to his breeches, and she began to unlace them as he slipped a hand beneath her shift, feeling the  
softness of her breasts.

  
They moved closer, and he pushed her down, arms on either side of her shoulders as their kiss  
deepened and turned more ferocious. She pulled at his lip and he groaned. Their bodies were  
pressed together, and he began sucking at a pulse point on her neck. Sansa mewed. Her hands  
wrapping around his shoulders, nails trailing down his back. She could feel him harden, as he  
trailed kisses down her stomach.

  
In a single motion he pulled off her shift, while she slid off his breeches. They were bare before  
each other, as they had been many times before. She took in the sight of the long white scar that  
reached from navel to collar bone, that he so carefully covered with high-collared doublets. She  
loved him even more for it, a testament to a man well-sung in love.

  
He moved between her hips now and began to play with her nub. Sansa could feel the pressure  
building and she was already wet. This man would be the undoing of her. Gods, he broke through  
her steel walls and created a garden within her. He slid in, and began pumping in and out, and  
Sansa lost herself in his eyes.

  
After he slid out, he lay down beside her. Arms wrapped around each other and legs intertwined.  
Sansa breathed in his smell. It annoyed her that she would have to go soon, for she never stayed  
long, lest any of her maids found out their secret. But, she knew a day would come when they  
would no longer have to hide their love for each other, and would profess it openly…and loudly.

  
“Do you have to go for so long?” Petyr was stroking her hair absent-mindedly.

  
He laughed quietly, “it’s only for a few weeks, sweetling. The Lord Protector of the Vale cannot  
sit in his castle. You know this, your father was Warden of the North, and I am Warden of the  
East. I have many men to see and inquires to make.” He brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I  
shall purchase some more hair dye for you as well.”

  
Sansa sighed. She hated the muddy brown colour, and longed to see her shiny auburn tresses once  
again.

  
“Believe me Sansa, I dislike your hair this way even more than you do, but we both know how  
necessary it is to hide your true identity.” She nodded, then loosened herself from his arms, so she  
was sitting on top of him.

  
A dark, lusty look entered his eyes. She smiled at him conspiringly, and traced her fingers over his  
chest. “Right now, I wish not to discuss matters of power.” She pushed down on his pelvis,  
causing him to groan in pleasure. She was not quite done with him just yet.


	4. Sweetrobin

“My lady, the little lord Robin wishes to see you.”

  
Sansa was dressed in a plain grey dress, a simple silver mockingbird sigil clasped at the beginning  
of her bodice. She had been doing needlework in her chamber, when the maid came in.

  
“Very well, I shall attend to the little lord myself.” The maid left, and Sansa walked down her  
corridor towards a small staircase, morning light brightening the dark and grey castle. She  
ascended the steps, and upon reaching the top was greeted by Maester Coleman. “Ah, lady  
Alayne good you have come. Robin has just overcome a tremor. I have given sweetmilk to soothe  
him, but he wishes to see you. Perhaps, he is in need of a story and some comfort.” Sansa smiled,  
bobbed a curtesy and moved towards Robin’s chambers.

  
Since the death of his mother, her cousin had grown even more sickly and frail. Sansa wondered if  
he would live past winter. He spent most of his days in bed. Although she cared for the boy, she  
found herself wondering if death would not be sweeter for him. At 13, he had not learned to  
swordfight, hawk or ride a horse. He had no one tutoring him in the politics and houses of  
Westeros. Yet, this fragile little boy would become Lord of the Vale when he came of age. She  
knew Lord Baelish did not care for the boy very much, although he praised her abilities to comfort  
the lad. If he died, another cousin of Arynn would surely inherit, and Baelish’s claim as stepfather  
would not hold. She would discuss that with him later.

  
Sweetrobin was reclining on a sofa overlooking a warm fire. She sat down on the floor beside  
him, holding his hand. “How fares my lord?” He smiled at her, and replied “I’ve missed you  
Alayne, I have not seen you in days. Why do you never come to visit me? I hate the maester! All  
he does is give me milk of the poppy and other medicines! I sleep for hours! AND I HATE MYA  
STONE! That stupid bastard girl dropped hot soup on my knee!”

  
Sansa sighed. Even if this boy did live to become Lord of the Vale, he would make a horrible  
companion to anyone. She shuddered at the thought of when Aunt Lysa wanted her to marry her  
cousin. At least with her death, I’ve been granted many mercies. “My lord, you are ill and in pain,  
therefore they must give you medicine. Is there anything I can do to cheer your lordship? How  
about a story? Have you heard about the Night’s King and his corpse bride?”

  
The boy looked intrigued. “That’s silly. They don’t exist. And that isn’t a story from the Vale.”  
Sansa wondered why her aunt had been so close-minded and only fed him nonsense of the Vale,  
as if an entire kingdom and worlds beyond did not exist. “It is not a story from the Vale, but one  
from the North. The Starks tell stories of men made from ice who ride on giant ice spiders and  
descended during the Long Night upon the living with their army of the dead. The Stark words,  
“winter is coming” does not only warn of harsh weather, but of the dead that could come with it.”  
She remembered stories Old Nan had told Arya, Bran and her before bedtime and how  
wonderstruck she had been, although she had always preferred stories of love and princes.

  
But, that was long ago and only memories. She may never see Arya again, and surely Bran was  
dead. She said a silent prayer to the Crone for wisdom and guidance and to keep Arya safe  
wherever she was. Sansa had always kept both the old gods and the new, but lately she found she  
had been longing for the Godswood, and the Vale did not have one. The old gods reminded her of  
her roots and her past, but perhaps the Gods would not have a place in her future. Both Tyrion  
and Petyr were not religious men. Tyrion did not believe there were Gods, and Petyr was not a  
superstitious man. She was lost in her thoughts, and Robin had begun to whimper. She quieted her  
mind, and told Robin of stories she once thought she had forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only 2 days til the GOT season finale and frankly, I'm terrified.  
> I can't stand D&D butchering her character and making her a prisoner once again.  
> They need to put her on the road to revenge. my baby better escape  
> Let me know what you think! Feedbacks always appreciated. Also, I read A LOT of  
> fic myself so post any Petyr/Sansa recs below :)


	5. Preparations

It had been several weeks since Lord Baelish had left, and Sansa had not received word from him  
at all. She was not concerned, and spent her time wisely.

  
She had been robbed of her septa early in life, Joffrey had made sure of that by mounting her  
head on a spike. But, Sansa had always been good in her lessons and needlework was not her  
only skill. She had a sharp mind and keen memory. She mastered the lore and history of the great  
houses of Westeros, their sigils, current lords and family members. Of course, being of a great and  
ancient house herself, Sansa felt pride in committing to memory the names and stories of the other  
great and lesser houses. Now, she was learning their strengths and weaknesses.

  
This was not something a person could find out by simply reading a book. No, Sansa made a list  
of all the current powerful houses—Baratheon, Lannister, Tyrell, Bolton, Frey…Targaryen—and  
wrote her observances based on current events and her interactions with their members in King’s  
Landing.

  
Sansa had been unsure about whether or not to include the last house on her list. Only one  
surviving member. Daenarys Targaryen. Something told Sansa not to underestimate the Queen  
across the Narrow Sea. Everyone in King’s Landing had dismissed the young maiden, even when  
she was a maiden no longer, but married to a fierce Dorthraki warlord. Even when she walked  
into her husband’s funeral pyre with three solidified dragon eggs, and emerged unburnt and  
unscathed with three baby dragons. Even when she obtained an army, and laid siege to many of  
the Free Cities along Slaver’s Bay, freeing the common people.

  
In King’s Landing, the small council had dismissed the girl half-a-world-away, and focused on the  
War of the Five Kings. And now what? Joffrey was dead. Tywin was dead, Tyrion had escaped  
from death and killed his father in the process. Varys disappeared and Baelish gone too. Cersei  
had turned into a Mad Queen, dismissing her small council. Butchering anyone who defied her.  
Cersei thought she was strong and a fierce lioness, but she had so many weaknesses. The  
Lannisters would not hold the Capital for long, Sansa was sure of it.

  
Sansa continued with her list. Stannis Baratheon. It appeared he was defeated after most of his  
fleet was destroyed in the Blackwater, burned by wildfire. But according to Lord Baelish’s  
sources, he was garrisoned at Castle Black. Good, if he wants to conquer Westeros from North to  
South, it would only work to her advantage. She heard rumours of his red-haired fire priestess  
whispering prophecies and spells in his ears—his weakness. However far Stannis made it, the red  
woman was his weakness.

  
The Boltons. How she hated them for murdering her mother and brother. She wished she could  
strangle Roose Bolton with her bare hands. The Boltons had never been respected in the North,  
and her father had distrusted Roose. Flaying had been outlawed, yet rumours that Roose’s bastard  
had resparked the vile practice were both disgusting and interesting to Sansa. The northern  
bannermen would have very little respect and loyalty to their new Wardens. They could be just as  
easily ousted as the Freys. Lord Baelish was Lord Paramount of the Trident, and their liege lord.  
He would have very little patience from them indeed.

  
Sansa knew how this game was played, and the best way to play it was not to get your hands  
dirty. She knew Lord Baelish had pulled the strings in so many alliances and had caused the  
Stark-Lannister war by convincing Lysa Arryn to poison her husband, the Hand of the King, and  
blame it on the Lannisters. She knew Jaime Lannister had pushed her brother out the window of  
the Broken Tower for seeing him having intercourse with his own sister, the Queen. She knew  
when her father became Hand of the King, Lord Baelish had helped him uncover the incestuous  
relationship—the Queen’s three children had not been sired by King Robert. Sansa knew Baelish  
had his hand in many of the plots in the Realm. She admired his cunning. A man with no motive is  
a man no one suspects. And while he was destroying the Lannisters under their very noses, they  
bestowed him with title upon title and great wealth for the Lannister-Tyrell alliance. Oh, he was  
clever. A master juggler was Petyr Baelish.

  
They had the Vale and the Riverlands in name. Sansa knew the next campaign would be to  
conquer the two great expanses of land by heart. And then the North was theirs for the taking.

***

  
Sansa had been inspecting the flour storage with the castle steward in the kitchens when a  
messenger came running up to her. “Lady Alayne, your Lord Father has returned from his  
journey.”

  
Finally, I have so much to tell him. The steward assured her he could finish counting stocks on his  
own, and she made her way towards the High Hall. A maid intercepted her on her way. “My lady,  
Lord Baelish has sent a few items to your room. There is to be a feast tonight to celebrate his  
return, and I am told a few lords and ladies will be attending. You are to go to your chambers and  
ready yourself immediately.”

  
So, I don’t get any alone time with him before? she wondered, but knew the answer. Slightly  
annoyed, she entered her chambers and saw a copper tub had already been brought in and was  
being filled with hot water. The smell of lavender filled the room.

  
More annoyed now, she moved towards her bed and saw a large brown package. Interested, she  
tore the paper away and a beautiful teal dress was revealed. More grand and formal than the  
dresses she had been wearing the past few months, it was a long sleeved silk dress with velvet  
sleeves. She stroked the fabric and inspected the pattern more closely. Small mockingbirds dotted  
the bodice, some in flight and other in branches or on nests. Am I to be legitimized now? She  
laughed aloud, causing her maids to glance over at her suspiciously.

  
“It is a fine dress, my lady. Fit for anyone in the court of Queen Cersei herself.” Sansa smirked,  
and opened a smaller box that contained the cursed hair dye. Ah yes my dear, but it was not  
dresses that made the lady at court, it was her survival skills. And Sansa had played that game so  
well.

  
After her maids set up her bath and laid out soaps and oils for her, Sansa dismissed them. She had  
to dye her hair in secret, lest anyone find out her true identity. She stepped into the tub, and let the  
warm water envelop her. The smell of lavender, her favourite scent filled the air, as she began to  
pour in the oil. What exactly has Petyr planned tonight?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EMOTIONALLY TRAUMATIZED BY THE GAME OF THRONES FINALE!  
> I am so happy that bitch Myranda is dead and Theon was able to redeem himself and  
> jump into the snow banks with Sansa. That moment when they clasped hands and  
> looked into each others eyes finally trusting each other was amazing (plus the  
> Greyjoy theme)! I'm sad Jon died but I AM CONVINCED HE WILL BE REBORN  
> AS AZOR AHAI and save everyone from the White Walkers alongside Bran. What  
> do you guys think?  
> So, even though we all hate what the show has done to Sansa--new chapter :) I  
> wanted to show that Sansa is indeed playing the game and understands the politics of  
> Westeros. LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!


	6. Harry the Heir

Music and laughter spilled out of the Great Hall, as Sansa Stark entered. She had arrived late, and  
had not been there to greet the guests as she usually would have, but something told her Lord  
Petyr did not want her fulfilling any duties one would expect of the daughter of a lord. Not  
tonight. Not the way she was dressed. The teal dress was finer than anything she had worn in  
months, and the silver mockingbird upon her neck showed all who she was, and which family she  
belonged to.

  
Sansa saw Ser Albar Royce and went up to him, engaging in conversation. She spoke to Ser  
Edmund Breakstone, asking after the health of his ailing mother. Lady Claremont and her shared a  
laugh over her new husbands attempts to court her. As she mingled and spoke to the guests, she  
kept an open eye for Lord Petyr. She could not see him amongst the crowd.

  
Lady Anya Waynwood caught her eye, and Sansa walked over to her curtseying demurely. “Lady  
Waynwood, a pleasure to see you again. I trust you had a safe journey here.” Sansa smiled  
politely.

  
Lady Waynwood smiled tightly, “Not one without disruption, I can say that much.” She wrapped  
her arm around Sansa’s and led her through the crowd, smiling as they passed by people. Sansa  
was unsure of where this was going, although Lady Anya of Ironoaks had been nothing but kind  
to her the few times they met, she wondered where this sudden closeness was coming from. They  
had moved off to the side of the room, slightly apart from the crowd.

  
Lady Anya picked up a goblet of wine from a passing servant, and gazed out into the crowd. “I  
must be open with you Lady Alayne, I mistrust your lord father. Although the Lords Declarant  
have given him a year to prove himself, his reputation is not helping his cause. Moneylender,  
whoremonger. He is a sly man, of that there is no doubt.” She turned and looked Sansa square in  
the eye. “But, you, you do not have the same look as your father.” She reached out and touched  
the younger girl’s cheek. “They say you are bastard born, but you are gentle and there is a noble  
look in your face. I can see that even more now that you are not wearing those muted greys and  
browns. You wear it with grace, Alayne. You walk with grace and purpose. A confidence a girl  
whose place in the world is not secure would not have. Tell me, is there something you are  
hiding?”

  
Sansa had kept a demure smile on her face the whole while, never betraying a sign of worry as  
Lady Anya spoke. She was not an unkind woman, but she would not trust the secret Lord Petyr  
and her had kept to her, not until the opportune moment arrived. She blushed for effect. “My lady  
flatters me so. As I am sure my lord father has told you, my mother was a Bravosi gentlewoman  
and I was going to be a septa until I discovered who my father was. As you can imagine, hearing  
that Lord Baelish was Master of Coin and Lord of Harrenhall, I could not resist the attempt to  
meet him. What you see before you is nothing but his schooling,” she said sweetly.

  
“Perhaps, Alayne, perhaps.” Sensing that Lady Anya was done with her, Sansa excused herself  
and moved through the crowd trying to find Petyr. She saw him ahead, chatting with Nestor  
Royce, a cup of Arbor Gold in hand. It was interesting that although Petyr always seemed to have  
wine with him, he never got drunk. She had discovered it was because he took small sips that  
appeared to be long and drawn out and never finished more than one cup. Meanwhile, his  
companions would empty three or four. She moved to reach him, before he clapped his hands and  
called the party in for dinner.

  
Frustrated, Sansa followed the other knights and noble guests into the dining hall. She found her  
place not far from the place of honour, underneath a lit scone. He’s doing all this to put me on  
display. Lady Anya was watching her from the high table, and Sansa smiled sweetly in her  
direction. Why the sudden interest, my lady? Lord Petyr never looked at her, choosing to continue  
chatting with the lords beside him.

  
She felt someone sit next to her, and turned to see who it was. A stocky, blond man with pale blue  
eyes that matched her own and a rather comely face occupied the seat. He was wearing the sigil of  
red and white diamonds. House Hardyng. So, this is Sweetrobin’s heir.

  
He addressed her first. “I believe we have not been formally introduced, my lady. I am Harrold  
Hardyng.” Sansa nodded her head politely. “I have heard you are an excellent jouster, Ser  
Hardyng. I am Lor--”

  
“Everyone knows who you are, Lady Alayne.” His smile reached his eyes, she liked that and she  
sensed he was genuine despite his reputation as a flirt. “Though I believe I am put to shame. I  
thought the reports of your beauty and grace were exaggerated, but the stories are true. You are a  
wonder.” He took her hand and kissed it.

  
Sansa was rather pleased with all this, but not because she was getting attention from a man who  
would have once been the knight of her dreams. No, she had figured out exactly what Petyr had  
been planning without even speaking to him. She turned her head slightly, and indeed Petyr had  
been watching her. He raised a glass in her direction, and she responded by squinting her eyes.  
Nevertheless, she would entertain this knight, for Sweetrobin was ailing and was too weak to  
come down to the feast tonight and take the seat of honour. And if Sansa and Petyr were to hold  
the Vale, they needed an ally. Admiration was a useful tool indeed.

  


***

  
Sansa was an excellent dancer, and many had remarked on her talent as she changed partner after  
partner that night. She was rather pleased with the way everything had turned out. Harry the heir  
was entranced by her. Even as he was partnered with other ladies, he would smile and glance at  
her as they passed. When they were partnered again, she japed that he was not giving all the other  
noblemen a fair chance with her.

  
He was infatuated her with, this much Sansa knew. Sansa almost envied him, falling so easily for  
a pretty face. Just as I had with Joffrey. Once she had loved Prince Joffrey with all her heart, and  
admired and trusted her his mother, the queen. They had repaid that love and trust with her father's  
head. Sansa would never make that mistake again. She would never give her love and trust away  
so freely.

  
“My lord, I must confess I feel rather faint with all this dancing and merriment. I need some fresh  
air.” Harry led her outside to a balcony, and she turned away from him breathing deeply. He  
caught her hand.

  
“Lady Alayne, when I found out we were betrothed I was rather appalled to be marrying  
Littlefinger’s bastard daughter. I saw my grandmother Lady Anya speaking to you earlier, she  
seems to like you and now I understand why.”

  
Betrothed? Has Petyr lost his mind? She kept her face pretty and complacent as he kissed her  
hand again, never letting him know that he was not informed at all of these plans. Whether he’s  
expecting me or not, Petyr will see me tonight. “Lord Harry, I am rather pleased myself. I had not  
expected this match to be so… successful. And being baseborn myself, I--”

  
“Shhhh Lady Alayne, you must not insult yourself so. Why, every man in the room only had eyes  
for you, bastard or not.” He toyed with the velvet fabric on her arm, “And you are certainly not  
dressed as a bastard tonight.”

  
Sansa smiled at him, appearing sweet and innocent and contrite. All the while inside she was  
seething.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not really a big fan of Sansa-Harry pairings so don't expect too much of this! I  
> actually want to move Sansa and Petyr out of the Vale in the next few chapters and  
> onto their conquest!  
> Let me know what you think! I appreciate feedback and thanks for reading :D


	7. Mockingbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead for those who've been waiting!

It was late into the night when Sansa burst into Petyr’s solar and pushed the door open into his  
bedchamber. She had taken the servants staircase, lest anyone see her wandering the castle in her  
bedclothes at night, especially with so many guests. She had not expected him to be sleeping, the  
man needed very little sleep and she often found him busy at his desk. It did not matter now, she  
shook him awake.

  
“Sansa, what are you--” She silenced him with a hard slap across his face. “You come back  
unannounced and do not even speak to me or look at me. You have me dressed up like a pretty  
little doll, and then parade me in front of Robin’s heir and expect me to marry him?” Angry eyes  
bored into his, and fists began beating at his chest, “Like we don’t fuck each other. Like you don’t  
moan my name and suck my--”

  
Petyr was laughing now, which only caused Sansa to punch him harder. He was not listening.  
“You think this is funny, do you? Do I mean nothing to you? Am I that--”

  
She was silenced as Petyr grabbed the hands beating at his chest, and pulled her onto the bed  
pinning her beneath him. It always surprised Sansa how strong Petyr was for such a lean and  
slender man. But, he was all muscle and sinew. His grey-green eyes bored into her own steel blue  
ones, and she could not say another word. Outside she could the cold, contrite lady. With Petyr,  
she was able to show her true intentions. And right now, she was angry. Yet, as he continued to  
look into her eyes and keeping her immobile, some of that anger melted away.

  
His hand reached up and stroked her cheek gently. “Do you really think I would let the greatest  
treasure I have slip into the arms of some upjumped squire, heir or not? Does my dear wolf have  
so little faith in her mockingbird?” The way he said it was so gentle and quiet, almost a whisper. A  
breath upon her skin.

  
“I’ve missed you, Petyr.” She felt tears at the back of her throat, and her voice cracked. “For  
weeks you’ve left me alone without your comforting presence. Without a word to know where  
you are, who you’ve seen. I—I haven’t been without you in so long, and you never let me in.”  
Tears began to stream down her face, as her anger dissipated into sadness.

  
“Shhh, sweetling. I never want to see tears pool in your eyes. Never.” Petyr wiped the tears from  
Sansa’s eyes, and she clung to him like a child would to their mother.

  
“Harry isn’t your future, Sansa. He’s a stepping stone. Robin is ailing and falling quickly. Before  
long, he’ll be dead. And how will you and I continue to have hold over the Eyrie and the Vale?  
We need Harry, if only for a time.” He shifted position so he was no longer pinning her down, but  
on her side. He drew her into his arms, nestling his face in her hair and breathing in the scent of  
her. He was gentle, always so gentle.

  
Sansa kept her eyes down, looking at his chest. “He seems infatuated with me. Praising me and  
kissing my hand. Do you truly intend for me to marry him? Because I won’t” Sansa moved out  
from under his head, and sat up on her elbow, looking at him directly. “I won’t, Petyr. I did not  
leave King’s Landing to be told what to do.”

  
“Do you think I would ever force you to do anything?”

  
“No. I know you care for me. We still have Harrenhall, and I know you hate that place and  
believe it is cursed, but it is still the seat of power in the Riverlands.”

  
“Sweetling, I am not from the Riverlands. I am from the Vale.”

  
“And how have the lords of the Vale treated their fellow lord? With respect and dignity? They talk  
behind your back and would see you overthrown. I have Tully blood. You grew up with my  
mother in Riverrun. We have connections there.”

  
“Sansa. We need the Vale. The knights of the Vale are trained for battle in ice and snow. They  
have not been used since the War of the Five Kings started. The only standing army with no  
fatalies, making it the largest.” He exaggerated the last word, as he had a tendency to do.

  
Sansa bit her lip. She knew all this, but she could not bear the idea of marrying Harry while Petyr  
was around. There had to be another way.

  
“There might be another way to make an ally out of Harry. Not as strong as marriage, but useful  
nonetheless. Men often praise my good looks, but do little justice to my sweet tongue and quick  
wit. You remember how many male friends I had at King’s Landing. The Hound. Tyrion. Loras.  
Varys. You. People who wanted to help me in some way or another. I can make Harry my friend,  
and reward him when he lends his army to us in battle.”

  
Petyr sighed. “You speak of friendship but he has already fallen for you.”

  
“With my looks, not with me. I hear the Young Falcon likes to be the dominant figure. Let me  
show him my more…aggressive side and see how he likes it. I can make suggestions for Myranda  
Royce. Lord Nestor has been so faithful to us, it will be a reward to make his daughter the next  
Lady of the Vale.”

  
Petyr nodded. “You can try, sweetling. I’ll give you a week, but after that I will push for a  
wedding.”

  
Sansa nodded, sure of herself. Many men had fallen for her looks, and many more men had  
wanted her for her name. But, Petyr and her had bigger plans than the Vale. The Iron Throne  
loomed far ahead. A silence fell between them. She nestled back into him. “I don’t want to leave.”

  
“Who said you were leaving?” He gently took her face in his hands. He kissed her softly on the  
lips. But, what started out as gentle soon turned into something fierce and rough and full of  
passion. They clawed at each other, both wanting to be rid of their burdensome clothes. He pulled  
off her nightgown in a single motion, exposing her to the nighttime air and causing her nipples to  
harden. He sucked on her neck, reaching down and cupping her ass cheeks.

  
Suddenly, he turned her over. Sansa smiled. Though she loved Petyr for his gentleness, it was  
when he was rough that she knew he was truly hers, as this was a side only reserved for her—a  
wild animalistic side.

  
Admiring the view of her splendid and full ass before him, he could no longer resist. He bit down  
on her left cheek, causing Sansa to moan in pleasure. Gods, she had missed him. His attention on  
her ass continued, as he took bigger bites and sucked all over, which would surely leave marks in  
the morning. Sansa did not care, she could feel wetness spilling out of her.

  
Sansa kept her ass towards him and positioned herself on all fours. She knew he was going to be  
rough tonight, and after the many weeks apart, she wanted nothing more.

  
He grabbed her roughly by the waist and drove into her fast and hard, filling her up completely.  
Sansa let out a loud groan. He began to ram into her again and again, and Sansa felt it each time.  
With each thrust, she was getting closer and closer to the edge as the angle was enough to hit the  
right spot. The sound of skin smacking skin filled the air, as well as the sweet smell of sex.

  
As he rammed into her one hand wrapped around her waist, he used to pull at her breasts, which  
bounced up and down with each thrust. She felt herself tightening around him, getting closer and  
closer to losing control. But, he was not done, he was going faster and harder into her, and Sansa  
moaned with each thrust. She came all around him. His stamina was good and he continued to  
fuck her hard and roughly. With a final hard thrust, he came into her, letting out a loud groan. He  
collapsed on top of her, both of them feeling satisfied and spent.

  
Petyr got up, and admired her ass again. “Sorry sweetling, this will leave marks.” Sansa turned  
and bit into his shoulder, startling him and drawing blood. He laughed. From her cunt, their  
mingled juices were flowing out, along with a trickle of blood. She would be sore in the morning,  
but it hardly mattered. “Now we’re equal.”

  
“We’ve always been equals, love. You’re mine and mine alone, Sansa Stark. I would burn this  
country to the ground for you if only you commanded it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading :)


	8. Playing the Game

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is mainly a filler chapter that sets the tone for the next 2 huge chapters I have  
> planned. Enjoy!

Sweetrobin had shaking fits the entire morning, as some of the guests from the previous night  
were departing. He was falling and fast. Sansa felt nothing but pity and sadness for the young lord  
as Maester Coleman bled him again and again. She wondered if it made him weaker instead of  
helping him. He was drowsier than ever and spoke incoherently, milk of the poppy taking over his  
senses. Petyr is right, he will die soon.

  
Although he was too unaware of his surroundings to know she was there, Sansa felt she should  
comfort her cousin with her presence at his bedside by singing to him softly. Tears sprang to her  
eyes, and began to fall softly on the pillow. His mother may have been a horrible woman, and  
Petyr may have seen Robin as weak and disposable, but Sansa had grown to care for the boy she  
was charged with. He doesn’t even know we share the same blood, and he never will. When she  
finally emerged from his chambers, all she wanted was to get a breath of fresh air.

  
Sansa stepped into the main courtyard of the Eyrie. Carts were being loaded, and servants were  
bustling about. She knew the Waynwoods would stay for another day or two, so she had time to  
formulate a plan to speak to Harry, but then she caught sight of Myranda Royce. She was sitting  
on a bench, caught between two men who were not really listening to what she was saying, but  
staring at her large breasts. She looked uncomfortable, and then her eyes locked with Sansa’s.

  
“Alayne!” she called. “Oh my sweet Lady Alayne, come here a minute!”

  
Sansa smiled, the opportune moment had arrived. She walked towards Myranda. “Oh Randa,  
there you are. I have been looking for you all morning. I understand you are to depart for the  
Gates of the Moon this afternoon, and my father brought back some fabric from his travels. I had  
hoped you would help me with ideas for a new gown.” She inclined her head towards the two  
knights. They stood up and bowed towards the Lord Protector’s daughter, one kissing her hand.  
“Of course, you may take Lady Myranda, my lady.”

  
The two girls smiled at the knights sweetly, and walked towards a staircase that lead to the Maiden  
Tower, and Sansa’s chambers. As they walked, Randa made fun of the two knights, and although  
she laughed and looked aghast at all the appropriate times, Sansa’s mind was far away.

  
They entered her chambers. “So where is this fabric, Alayne?” She looked around the room. “I  
don’t see anything.”

  
“Sit down, Randa. I have a matter of the heart to discuss with you.”

  
Randa looked instantly interested and plopped on a settee by the window, leaning forward  
conspiringly. “Oh, is this about Harry? To tell the truth Alayne, I was rather disappointed when  
my father told me of the engagement. You see, I rather fancied him myself but Lady Waynwood  
does not like me.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “The old crone should fall dead already.  
Who is she to make decisions for the future Lord of the Vale? I am sorry Alayne, but I shall never  
forgive you for stealing Harry away from me.”

  
“Oh you sweet fool, it is not I who wanted this betrothal, but it is my father’s doing. To tell you  
the truth Randa, I do not wish to be Lady of the Vale. My…aspirations are elsewhere.” She  
narrowed her eyes, not wishing for Randa to ask exactly what those aspirations were. She liked  
Randa well enough, even considered her a friend, but the girl was quick witted and had a sharp  
tongue. I must be careful what I reveal to her. “I was trained to be a septa, and after seeing the life  
my father lives, sometimes I long for a simpler life. You grew up in a great house and are better  
suited to managing a great seat such as the Vale. And Harry would be entranced by you.”

  
Myranda was wide-eyed. No doubt she thinks I have lost my mind for not wanting to be a great  
lady. Sansa willed tears to spring to her eyes, and spoke quietly as if she was truly torn. “I do not  
want power, truly. I want to go back to a simpler life.”

  
Myranda’s face was an interesting picture. She looked both amused and confused. Suddenly, she  
clasped Sansa’s hands. “Alayne, if you do not want this truly…I shall speak to your father for  
you--”

  
Sansa started at that. There was no way Petyr could know what she was doing, he would be  
furious. “No, you will do no such thing. I must speak to Harry myself. If he is truly honourable  
then he will not force a maiden into a marriage.” Though practically every high born maiden is  
forced into a marriage, she thought. Harry would be no different, even if he thought Alayne was  
base-born, her father held many titles and it would be an alliance.

  
“Alright Alayne, you speak to Harry. I must confess I was not expecting this, but your secret is  
safe with me. I will tell no one of what we spoke of. But, if you somehow convince Harry that I  
am the one meant for him—I am eternally indebted to you.” Myranda looked genuinely grateful.

  
Sansa stood and wiped her tears away. “Thank you Randa, I will speak to him tonight. I will let  
you know his answer by raven. You may await my response in the morning. Now please, I need  
to rest and prepare myself for what must come to pass.” She kept her head down and looked  
somber as Myranda glided out.

  
We’re all liars here, and everyone one of us is better than you. If only Petyr could have seen that  
performance, perhaps he would not have doubted her so. Lying came easily to Sansa now. She  
had not expected Myranda to give in so easily, but in the end it worked to her advantage.

  
However, she was not prepared for Petyr to stride into the room so soon after Myranda had left.  
Has he heard everything I have told her? She kept her face as still as stone, while she curtseyed  
before him. “Father.”

  
He smirked, slowly approaching her, drawing her in with his eyes boring into her soul. Sansa did  
not move. “Daughter, I regret to inform you on such short notice that I will be leaving again for a  
few days. Nestor Royce and I have business in Gulltown.” Sansa exhaled in relief. Good, he  
hadn’t heard. And he had lied saying he would not be leaving anytime soon. Never mind, she  
could complete her plan far easily without him in the same castle.

  
Three maids entered the room carrying fabric and dresses. She spied new thread and needles as  
well. Grey and white fabric poked out from among the pile in one maid’s arms. They emptied out  
her chest and drawers and replaced her muted brown and grey dresses of a bastard with blues and  
greens of House Baelish. Ah, so we’re playing this game. He continued to regard her so, and  
Sansa said, “How kind of you father, to give me much finer clothes above my station. Am I to be  
legitimized?” Evidently, Petyr was moving ahead with his plan to marry her to Harry.

  
He did not answer her question, but moved very close to her still keeping a father-daughter  
distance while her maids busied themselves with her clothes. “My daughter deserves all the finery  
and silks in the world. Now, Alayne there is a change of plans. As Robin is ailing, Harry has  
decided he will stay in the Eyrie and keep watch over his dear cousin until he gets better. But, his  
grandmother will be leaving. I expect you to tend to Sweetrobin and continue your other duties  
managing the household as usual. And take care of our guest.” He regarded her thoughtfully.

  
She curtseyed again, moving close to him and planting a dutiful and daughterly kiss on his cheek.  
“I shall do my best to uphold your honour, father.” She reached down and brushed her fingers  
across his pants, reminding him of just what game she was playing. He looked at her darkly, but  
she stepped away from him just as quickly, as if nothing had happened.  
“Have a safe journey, father. May the light of the Seven go with you.”

  


***

  
It was getting dark, and the castle felt almost empty again without the presence of the Lord  
Protector and the many guests that had filled its rooms. It did not matter. High in the Maiden  
Tower, Sansa Stark dressed her dark hair in an intricate braid and wound it into a bun. She  
adorned herself in a new forest green woollen dress, decorated with gold brocade, and descended  
the stairs into a dining chamber near the Great Hall.

  
It was an appropriate size. Tapestries decorated the walls depicting a battle from hundreds of years  
ago. A mahogany dining table was centered in the room, and the servants had already laid out  
dinner on a side table so Sansa could have no disturbances any serve Harry herself. Intimate, yet  
still formal. That was the image Alayne Stone would project tonight as she dined with Harrold  
Hardyng. The night belongs to you, sweetling.

  
He entered the room, dressed in a handsome red leather jerkin and kissed her hand. She smiled  
and motioned him to be seated. Sansa poured him a glass of wine, and sat down beside him.

  
Warrior, give me courage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we see that Sansa is playing a double card here. I appreciate everyone who is  
> reading this :)


	9. I'll Be Queen Someday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I put a lot of love into this chapter, so enjoy!

The climb up the steps to the sept was long, but Sansa Stark was determined to make it. Her grey  
and white brocade dress dragged along the steps behind her as she made her ascent. When she  
opened the doors, a rush of calmness filled her.

  
It was empty, as it usually was. Light entered from the many stained glass windows, creating a  
halo around her. She gazed at the altar across the room in open wonder. All her anxiety melted  
away. It had been many months since Sansa had prayed. But, today she needed all the strength of  
the Seven behind her. For the young wolf would do battle.

  
She lit candles at the altar and knelt, bowing her head. Smith, grant me strength. For today, I must  
turn my enemies into my allies. Crone, show me the path ahead and guide me. For today, I must  
show my colours.

  


***

  


  
A hush fell upon the audience chamber when Alayne Stone entered it. Or was she Alayne Stone?  
The young woman had the face and height of Baelish’s natural daughter, but the girl before them  
had bright auburn hair and the direwolf sigil of House Stark emblazoned on her waist. This girl  
carried the loud confidence of a first born daughter, an heiress. And her father was not there to  
accompany her.

  
The small party before the girl looked at her in amazement, mouths agape. Most were unsure what  
to make of the situation. All except Lady Anya Waynwood of Ironoaks, who had the ghost of a  
smile plastered on her face.

  
The young woman with the auburn hair flowing down to her waist in loose curls spoke first. “My  
lords, my lady. I would like to thank you for granting me an audience on such short notice.” She  
paused, taking a moment to sit down in the chair that would have been reserved for the lord of the  
castle. This girl was bold indeed, looking each of them in turn directly in the eye, and holding her  
head high. “I apologize that Lord Baelish could not be here, but he was not the one who invited  
you. It was I. Lord Baelish has lied to you, my lords, my lady.” She paused again for effect,  
gaging their reactions.

  
“My name is not Alayne Stone, and I am not his daughter.”

  
Lyn Corbray gasped. A look of realization was dawning on Yohn Royce’s face. “My name is  
Sansa Stark, eldest daughter of Lord Eddard Stark and Lady Catelyn of Winterfell, former  
Warden and Wardeness of the North. I am the daughter of the North, the blood of the First Men  
flows through my veins. And I am the last Stark.”

  
Silence filled the room. No one was quite sure what to make of the situation. Last anyone had  
heard of Sansa Stark, she had fled from King’s Landing without a trace, and been accused of  
murdering King Joffrey on his wedding day. Some claimed she was dead. Others said she had  
sailed to Essos. Still others said she had turned into a wolf with bat wings and flown away. Lyn  
Corbray was the first to speak, “How do we know you’re really Sansa Stark and not an imposter?  
You seemed so eager to convince us that you were Alayne. Why tell us now?”

  
Sansa never flinched. I am hardened steel. She looked at Yohn Royce. “Lord Royce, you knew  
my father well. He grew up in these very halls as Lord Arryn’s ward. I first saw you when you  
were escorting your son, Ser Waymar to the Wall many years ago in Winterfell.”

  
Yohn Royce looked stunned. “Sansa Stark?!” He exchanged glances with Lady Anya, who had  
kept quiet the entire time.

  
“I had told you Lord Royce that this girl is far too noble and gentle to be bastard born. She has the  
mannerism of someone who has grown up in a great castle. She runs this castle with excellence  
and precision, better than Lysa Arryn ever did. And in truth, no amount of Baelish’s schooling  
could pull of an act such as that. I believe you child, as I told you of my suspicions that day of the  
feast.”

  
Ser Lyn looked perplexed. “That little worm has been telling lies? Why would he be interested in  
a Stark?” He gasped. “My lady, has he hurt you or made you do anything against your wishes?”  
His hand rested on his great valyrian steel sword, Lady Forlorn.

  
Sansa put up her hand to silence them. “No my lord, he has not. Lord Baelish has told many lies,  
all to protect me. He told you he was my father, and he has acted as nothing but my father in that  
regard. Lord Baelish loved my mother, and was witness to all the humiliations and abuse I  
suffered under Joffrey. He took an interest in me, and smuggled me away when he had the chance  
and brought me to my own blood, my aunt Lysa. They told me they would keep me safe, as the  
Queen has a bounty on my head. And even after my aunt’s untimely suicide, he kept his promise.  
In truth, he is my uncle by marriage now, and I know he is my true protector. My true friend.”

  
“Perhaps, the man has more honour than we realized,” said Yohn Royce.

  
But, Sansa was not interested in Lord Baelish right now, she had plans of her own.

  
“My lords, my lady. Houses Corbray, Waynwood, and Royce are the most powerful in the Vale.  
As my blood is ancient, so too is yours. Perhaps it was with good reason and caution that my aunt  
Lysa stayed out of the War of the Five Kings, wanting to protect her son. But, we do not live in  
times of ease and prosperity and the House ruling King’s Landing is false. The Targaryens are all  
dead. Stannis is the last Baratheon, but it was Robert you knew as King. Stannis would not make  
a good king, my lords, my lady.” She looked at Lyn Corbray as she said, “We are men, not mice.  
And when the horns for battle blow, men follow the call for blood and justice.”

  
She paused, gaging their reactions once again. Lady Anya looked proud. Lord Royce looked  
dumfounded, but a sparkle had entered Lyn Corbray’s eye. Good, he’s a soldier. A commander.  
“When my father and King Robert Baratheon waged war against the Mad King, Aerys  
Targaryen, for what Prince Rhaegar did to my aunt Lyanna, the Army of the Vale followed them  
into battle under Jon Arryn.” She stood. “But, Jon Arryn is dead. King Robert is dead. My father  
is dead. My brother declared war against the family that betrayed and beheaded my father, and  
pushed my innocent brother outside the window of a tower so no one could find out their secret.  
But, the Lannisters secret of incest is out. A bastard king sits on the throne, an unworthy king. My  
brother Robb won many battles in his quest to King’s Landing, but in the end he was betrayed by  
his own man, Roose Bolton. That man now sits in the seat of my home. The skins of men flayed  
for no just cause hang upon my home. You went to war for an injustice. There are far bigger  
injustices. There’s no justice in this world, not unless we make it. I ask you help me win back my  
birthright and home Winterfell. To pledge your army and allegiance to me as Queen in the North.

  
I will free the North and bring justice to those that have done wrong.”

  
The doors burst open, and Harrold Hardyng stood before them. “Harry?” said Lady Anya.

  
He stood before Sansa Stark, eyes shining and drew his sword. She was the picture of health and  
vitality, a strong and beautiful woman. He knelt before her holding his sword out. “Lady Stark,  
the Vale supports your claim and cause. I pledge my allegiance to you. My life and my sword. I  
will shield your back and pledge the army of the Vale to you in its entirety. I vow that we will oust  
the Boltons from their tyranny in the North. I swear it by the light of the Seven.”

  
Ser Lyn stood. “Hardyng, who are you to give Lady Sansa the army of the Vale?”

  
“I have full authority, my lord.” He took Sansa’s hand and kissed it, and standing up gazed at each  
of them in turn. “Little Lord Robin is dead. I am Lord of the Vale now. And as Lord of the Vale, I  
will restore pride and glory to the Vale but freeing the Northmen, our allies. I will restore Ned  
Stark’s daughter to her rightful seat in Winterfell.” Sansa and Harry looked at each other. “All hail  
Queen Sansa! The Queen in the North!”

  
The fierceness of the direwolf emblazoned on her waist, matched the fierceness shining in her  
eyes. Sansa’s smile was triumphant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> QUEEEN IN THE NORTH


	10. Don't Test Me So

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Longest chapter yet. It took me a really long time to get this just perfect. Enjoy :)

When Lord Petyr Baelish entered the gates of the Eyrie, no one had been there to greet him. This  
surprised him, as he had been expecting servants or even Sansa. Surely, the new Lord of the Vale  
would welcome the Lord Protector. Something had changed during his absence. Has the girl gone  
rogue and seized the castle for herself? He chuckled internally, but the thought was not entirely  
out of sarcasm. Sansa had learned how to be manipulative and lie, and had no doubt seized Harry  
all to herself during his short absence. Or so he hoped.

  
Very few things fazed Lord Baelish. He understood the hidden intentions and motives of people.  
When Harrold Hardyng had asked to stay in the Eyrie during his absence instead of returning to  
Ironoaks, Petyr figured it was because he wanted to be there to claim Lordship when Robin Arryn  
died. No matter. He could see Robin’s death coming months ago. What he had not seen coming,  
was the transformation of Sansa Stark.

  
For years, he had watched her in King’s Landing, as she was transformed from an innocent,  
happy child into a young girl tormented and troubled. Although he told her she was a terrible liar,  
he could see her keen intelligence and wit as she pretended to be loyal to the Lannisters and  
Joffrey. She kept stone walls around her and trusted very few people. There was very little of the  
father in her. The girl was a survivor. Her illusions had been stripped away. He had thought to  
use her to gain more power. The key to the North. Although Petyr had always been attracted to  
Sansa from the moment he set eyes on her at the Tourney of the Hand, he had not expected the  
attraction to be mutual. He was not a forceful man, and respected control and restraint. But, when  
Sansa started to return his affections, he knew this would be a very advantageous relationship.  
Sansa saw only the ladder—the climb.

  
“Lord Baelish, your presence is requested in the High Hall.” Two guards he did not recognize  
bearing the sigil of House Arryn appeared out of nowhere.

  
“My lord, I am to escort you there immediately.” The guard looked serious, and Petyr did not  
doubt him. He motioned for them to lead the way and followed. He had hoped during his week  
long absence Sansa had not done anything foolish and Harry was more infatuated in her than ever.  
Despite what she said about gaining Harry’s friendship over his love, he did not believe it would  
happen. The man is a lust-filled beast. As much as he hated the thought of any other man touching  
Sansa, he knew they needed to keep power in the Vale and marrying Harry was the only real  
solution.

  
Guards lined the corridor leading to the High Hall, and the banners of House Arryn decorated the  
walls, hanging from scones. This looks almost like King’s Landing. The doors to the High Hall  
opened and the sight before him caught Lord Petyr Baelish slightly off guard. Sitting on the throne  
of Arryn was not Harrold Hardyng.

  
High above the Moon Door, auburn hair shining in the morning light in a silver silk gown  
decorated with the sigil of a direwolf on her waist sat Sansa Stark. On her head rested a simple  
silver circlet. She was a sight to behold, except she wore a mask of stone. The ice queen. To her  
silver circlet. She was a sight to behold, except she wore a mask of stone. The ice queen. To her  
right, stood Lord Harrold Hardyng and Lady Myranda Royce. On her left, stood Lord Yohn and  
Nestor Royce, along with Lady Anya Waynwood. It was a magnificent sight indeed and wholly  
unexpected. Petyr kept his composure, wondering what Sansa had done. Wondering how she had  
done it in such a short period of time.

  
“Lord Petyr Baelish, step forward,” called the new Lord Arryn.

  
He did, and knelt on one knee bowing his head. “Ser Harrold, or may I say Lord Arryn? I expect I  
must swear my fidelity to you. As my duties as Lord Protector of the Vale are over, and you are  
Robin’s rightful heir.” He looked up. “Though I must ask—why does my niece sit on the throne  
of the Vale while you stand beside her?”

  
“Ah Baelish, so now you admit she is your niece?” Bronze Yohn yapped.

  
“I am sure, the Lady Sansa has enlightened the Lords of the Vale of her true identity. Why else  
would she proudly wear the Stark direwolf in plain view?” He smirked.

  
She stood addressing the crowd of nobles gathered, clasping her hands in front of her and the  
room stood quiet. “Lord Baelish has done his service to the realm of Westeros by protecting my  
innocence and identity. The Queen has people looking for Sansa Stark, what better guise than a  
bastard daughter? No one would care about a Stone. I am indebted to you, my lord.” She moved  
to the side, closer to Lord Harry, skirts swishing as she walked. “Lord Baelish was the former  
Lord Protector of the Vale, but he has always been my protector since my captivity in King’s  
Landing. I name my uncle as Hand of the Queen. His quick wit and keen knowledge will be  
greatly appreciated on my council.”

  
Sansa moved now, taking slow steps down the stairs from the dais. “You have sworn yourselves  
to me as Queen of the North. You have pledged your army to me, for this I thank you. Your  
services to me will not go unrewarded. The Vale will only rise in power and prestige. The war  
council will meet and discuss the best way to attack the Boltons and gather the bannermen of the  
North, previously sworn to my brother King Robb. For in a fortnight, we march for glory. For  
honour. For justice.”

  
The crowd cheered. Glory and war had finally been brought to the Vale. Lord Baelish stood up,  
for Sansa had stopped right in front of him. “Will you not swear allegiance to me, uncle?” She had  
a proud smile on her face, but there was a mischievous twinkle in her eyes just for him.

  


***

  
He knocked on the door before he entered. “Yes.” He opened the door and bolted it, and  
sauntered in slowly. His footsteps echoed through the chamber, as the wind howled through the  
cracks in the windows.

  
She was embroidering. Stitching a dress, just as she had been that day when he asked her why she  
helped him after she told the Lords Declarant that Lysa Arryn jumped to her death. She never  
looked up from her embroidery, wanting to avoid his gaze now, just as she had then.

  
Not a child any longer.

  
He spoke just as quietly now as he did then. “It appears you have won over the hearts of the  
Vale.”

  
She did not speak, keeping her eyes on her embroidery. He continued after the pause. “I confess, I  
did not expect you to execute a plan such as that on your own. It was a risk.”

  
“It was a gamble. When I told Harry who I really was, anything could have happened. He could  
have surrendered me to Queen Cersei. Or found an even stronger reason to marry me for my  
claim.” She weaved the needle expertly through grey silk.

  
“But he didn’t.”

  
She finally looked up at him. “No. He did not.”

  
Petyr made his way over to arm chair across from where Sansa was sitting on her bed. “Why  
not?” He sat down.

  
Sansa set aside her embroidery. Another Stark direwolf, it appeared to be. “Because I convinced  
him that I was a virgin and wanted to stay a virgin. That I had suffered many abuses in King’s  
Landing and did not wish to marry ever again and even if I did I was already married to Lord  
Tyrion. That the Lords of the Vale were thirsty for war and would support my claim to the North,  
since my father grew up in these very halls.” She paused for a minute, gathering her breath. “And  
that Myranda Royce would make a far better wife for him that I ever will.” It did not matter now.  
It was done. No matter what Petyr would support her. She could see it from the look in his eyes.  
Although she did not listen to him, Sansa knew he did not expect her to be dutiful and obedient as  
most men would, but resourceful and cunning.

  
“You waited for the right moment. I was away and could not stop you. And now Robin is dead.  
And although we no longer hold the Vale, we still have legitimacy.”

  
“We do hold the Vale. We hold it through an ally. You cannot expect to conquer every holding in  
the Seven Kingdoms through a direct link. You do not have seven relations to marry off to the heir  
of each holding.”

  
Petyr regarded her. He knew what Sansa had done was not too far from his original plan of  
declaring her true identity at her wedding to Harry, so the Lords of the Vale would back her claim  
then. Yet, he could not help but wonder at the fragility of the alliance.

  
Sansa broke through his thoughts. “Either way Harry is our man. I did not buy him off with titles  
or money. He sold me his loyalty, my lord.”

  
“And tell me, why did you not tell him of your claim to the Iron Throne?” He was mocking her.  
Testing her.

  
Sansa rolled her eyes. “Do you think I would do that? That is between you and I. No one can  
know.” She moved off the bed and stood before the fireplace, poking at the logs to stir the flames.  
“It does not matter, Petyr. This changes nothing. You’re upset that I acted without consulting you,  
but things turned out as they should be. We march for Winterfell either way.”

  
“Perhaps, it is for the better. My trip to Gulltown was for your benefit. I’ve commissioned ships to  
be constructed, so we can sail for White Harbour and begin the march from there,” he pointed out.  
She could sense he was irritated. That he was losing his grasp on her. That she would no longer  
listen and obey, but make her own choices. Maybe he had not expected it to happen so soon, but  
he knew it would happen one day. She was a quick learner—adaptive. For there can only be two  
—a master and an apprentice. A student and a teacher. And she still had much to learn from him.

  
Sansa remained by the fireplace, seeking its warmth. Petyr remained as cold as ice. He was still  
testing her, watching what she would do next. Making sure she was ready for the game. Could  
she play the game with the greatest player? “You are so resourceful, my love.” She moved to  
stand behind him, whispering in his ears. “It is as if an invisible thread connects our minds. Even  
when I act out of line, it leads to the same goal.” She licked his ear and walked directly in front of  
him. Petyr had a satisfied smirk on his face. Good.

  
She was bare underneath and removed the two stays holding the dress together. It fell to the floor,  
and pooled around her feet. He was admiring her, talking every inch of her body in. Devouring  
her with his eyes. It was her turn to smirk. Sansa moved to straddle him and slid his coat of him.  
Petyr did not push her away or slide her off, but held her hips balancing her on him. His eyes  
changed from green-grey to lustful black. There. Nothing quite like having a beautiful naked girl  
sitting on your lap, to remind the man he still holds power. Even if he may not entirely.

  
She brushed her lips against his, ever so gently drawing out the sensation. Letting it tingle. “The  
gift of hundreds of ships deserves a reward.” The words were barely a whisper, tickling his ear.

  
He smirked. But Sansa knew she had won this battle. “You either die a hero, or live long enough  
to see yourself become a villain,” he drawled.

  
She did not know quite how to respond to that or what he meant, but before she could respond he  
lightly shoved Sansa onto the floor and she yelped at the hard contact, but it was soon replaced  
with the heat from his naked body.

  
They lay before the fireplace, tangled within each other. Casting shadows on the wall. Their  
lovemaking was slow and drawn out. Her auburn hair was spread all around her head like a halo,  
glowing in the light. Her soft moans filled the air, as he trailed kisses all over her body. As he  
suckled at her favourite spot behind her ear. The soft moans turned louder, as he thrust into her.  
Slow and teasing at first, but then harder and with more urgency. When he was done, they lay  
before the fireplace, arms and legs entwined. Her head was nestled against hers, and he picked up  
a long strand of hair admiring her true colour. “Much better,” he purred.

  
She started to nibble in his neck. Her laugh was soft and musical. “You know.” She mused. “You  
are still my uncle. This relationship is scandalous.”

  
“Ah, sweetling. We’re twisted lovers, you and I. Two people who hide behind masks, now must  
also hide behind walls. But, perhaps it is better. A secret weapon. They’ll never even see us  
coming.” He traced small circles on her back.

  
“Hmmmm…” A bruise was forming on his neck, as Sansa continued her gentle assault. “A  
gruesome twosome.”

  
They lay huddled together before the fireplace, until the first rays of dawn broke through the sky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment. I'd love some more feedback :D :D


	11. Hardened Steel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recommend listening to this after you're done!  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BLwxT-MpuBE

“Lady Stark, the men are ready to march at your call.”

  
Lady Stark. My mother was Lady Stark. Sansa had not let anyone call her Queen, not yet. Not  
until Roose Bolton’s head was on a spike, and she could sit in the godswood her father had loved  
so much. Not until Winterfell was cleansed and whole again. Not until she had her vengeance.

  
Harry and Myranda were married a few days after Robin’s funeral. It had pained Sansa to see the  
little lord a final time. He looked smaller and frailer than ever, all the life blood drained from him.  
And no one who really cared for him, except Maester Coleman. He is finally reunited with his  
beloved mother. The wedding was a grander affair that either Sansa or Petyr had expected. But  
the lords of the Vale loved their Young Falcon, and while preparations for war were being made,  
the lords feasted and drank to the happy couple.

  
That had been several weeks ago. Nestor Royce had been made temporary Lord Protector of the  
Vale in Harry’s absence, and a tearful Myranda had been left behind as well. Thousands of men  
had been called to the Bloody Gate and were camped at the foot of the many mountains and hills  
that surrounded the Vale. The Lords of the Vale had been quick to point out that Petyr was not a  
military man and had no place planning military strategies, but Sansa had insisted he be accepted  
into it. They welcomed her to attend the meetings and have her say in the matter, but mostly she  
listened so she could learn from these hardened warriors.

  
It brought a tightness to her chest thinking that Robb had been in similar situations. No doubt he  
too would be in a large room or tent with a huge map stretched out in front of him, as he and his  
bannermen argued over strategies and ideas. They used to call him the Young Wolf. He won every  
battle before he was defeated by treachery.

  
She looked at the scene before her. The tents had been loaded into carts. Horses had been bridled  
and riders mounted. Carts full to the brim with arrows and swords. Many blacksmiths had been  
called for the journey. Thousands of men in line formation, clad in armour. Hundreds of flags  
bearing the sigils of the great houses fighting.

  
Sansa sat on her horse atop a hill. On her side was her ever-present companion and protector Lord  
Baelish, a sly smile at his lips as he surveyed the scene before him. He has a look of hunger in his  
eyes. She wondered what was going through his mind, as he moved players and pawns on an  
imaginary chess board. The man lived for the game, and he was the best player. Everyone trusted  
him in King’s Landing. A man with no motive is a man no one suspects, he had told her. He was  
a clever one, always so eager to please while he plotted a demise. A master of chaos. But, could  
he win at war?

  
She looked to her left, and Harry was suited in armour. He gave her an encouraging smile. Harry  
was an excellent jouster, and well admired in the Vale. But, he had never fought in a real battle.  
He was just a boy, she thought. Robb was a boy too, but at least he died a King. Would she lose  
him too?

  
She looked down at her gloved hands, grasping the reins of her horse. And you, Lady Stark? Little  
bird. Little dove. Lannister. Stone. Can you survive the horrors of war? Will your own men betray  
you just as your father and brothers had been? You survived court. You survived horrors, abuse  
and torment. You are hardened steel.

  
She looked at Ser Lyn Corbray, who was perched at the edge of the hill, waiting for her  
command. Sansa took a deep breath and exhaled. She nodded. “March forward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A short chapter, but it's probably one of my favourites! I wanted to show Sansa's  
> strength and frame of mind as she commands the army. I posted 2 chapters in one day  
> so the next chapter is new too! :)


	12. Hear My Prayer

Petyr had a bemused look on his face. He got down from his horse, and walked over to her side,  
holding out his hand. “Come down, my lady.” Sansa was confused, but gave him her hand, as he  
helped her down from the horse. The march had been called to a stop due to an obstruction ahead.  
It had been a week since they had departed from the Bloody Gate. Petyr had complained that it  
would have been smarter to gather the troops at Gulltown but the War Council had wanted a  
march through the Vale, to show their force and might. Normally, it took several days to get to  
Gulltown, but with thousands of soldiers it was slower. Petyr had assured Sansa that since it had  
been over a month since he had commissioned the ships, they would be near completion by the  
time they arrived.

  
“Ser Brune, take care of our horses would you? My lady needs to stretch her legs.” He nodded at  
the burly knight. They moved away from the soldiers and towards the forest, keeping several feet  
apart. They entered the forest, and Sansa looked back. They were out of the line of vision of the  
soldiers. “Petyr, what are we doing? And why have we stopped?”

  
He put a finger to his lips and continued to walk ahead. Sansa breathed in the fresh air. She was  
glad to be free from the Eyrie. High up in the mountains, the air was thinner and colder. Down in  
the valley, everything was lush and green. They had passed the mountains as they neared the sea.  
She was reminded of her trip with Petyr to the Finger many months ago. It had been full of rocks.  
Gulltown was directly off the valley, the sea bringing in a cool breeze to the land. The Vale was  
said to be more fruitful and productive than the Reach, a little known fact. Sansa recalled Petyr  
had stressed that Nestor Royce make sure the granaries were full and loaded. Winter was coming.  
And no one knew how long this winter would be. Some were predicting it would last years. Just  
as the summer had lasted years.

  
She had been so lost in her thoughts that she had scarcely noticed where Petyr was leading her.  
He nudged her in the shoulder and pointed. Before her was a most beautiful sight. The lush green  
trees had parted into a clearing. The sun had reappeared and its rays entered the canopy  
surrounding a single heart tree. Tears sprang to her eyes. Sansa had not seen a weirwood tree in  
over a year, not since King’s Landing. And the Eyrie had no godswood. She entered the clearing.  
The red leaves had a mystical glow, as the sun’s rays lit the leaves in a fiery glow. There in the  
middle was the ugly face. She smiled, and slowly walked over to it. She reached out and touched  
its face. A sensation filled her that began from her toes to her head. She could not describe it, but  
she felt at peace. She felt calm. “How did you know about this place?” she whispered.

  
Petyr was beside her, regarding the ugly face. “I got lost in these woods as a child. I was angry  
with the knight who had been charged with taking me to Riverrun. I did not want to leave the  
Fingers, it was the only place I had ever known. I ran into the woods and came upon this sight.”  
He paused, and reached out to touch the face, placing his hand beside hers. His voice was a  
whisper. “It was the first time I had ever seen a weirwood tree. It was so eerie, so unusual. I  
thought I was dreaming.”

  
She smiled at him. “Thank you, Petyr. Thank you for showing me this small piece of my home.”  
She entwined her hand with his, and pulled him down so they sat on a large root. The surface was  
smooth, just like she remembered. The trees in the capital had been small. This tree was almost  
comparable to her father’s favourite in Winterfell. It must be thousands of years old. And all alone.  
Just like me. She felt fingers cupping her chin, and her eyes met his. No, she was not alone.  
His lips met hers, and they shared a sweet tender kiss. It felt right. This place was meant to be  
respected. It reminded her of home, of her ancestors and she knew he respected and understood  
that. But, for the first time in weeks, she felt content and calm. She sighed against his lips. He  
broke this kiss, hands still on her chin and regarded her softly. “Are the old gods watching us,  
sweetling?”

  
She pondered for a moment. Were they? The old gods were nameless, and their importance had  
faded in most of Westeros as the Faith of the Seven rose. There were no priests, no holy texts, no  
songs of worship, and almost no rites that go with the worship of the old gods. It was simply  
passed from generation to generation in the Northern families. She looked at the heart tree, and the  
face carved into it. Old Nan had told her and her Robb, back when they were the only Stark  
children, that the children of the forest carved faces into the weirwood trees, though no one knew  
why. She remembered thinking that a god was watching her out of the tree. The wind rustled  
through the bright red leaves. Old Nan had said the rustle of leaves were the old gods speaking  
back to worshippers. But Sansa had not prayed, were they speaking to her?

  
“Yes, Petyr they are. They see into the hearts of men and what they truly are.” She clasped his  
hand, pulling him closer. She once thought the old gods had abandoned her in King’s Landing,  
but her fate had changed. Her torment in the capital was a learning experience, to teach her and  
prepare her for her destiny. She was in control now. And if she ever saw Cersei again, she would  
take her head.

  
He kissed her again, just as soft as before. They stayed there for some time, leaning against the  
heart tree quietly and contently, listening to the wind rustling the leaves. Old gods, hear my  
prayer. Help me to take back Winterfell. Help me to honour my family. My family, the Starks,  
loved you and worshipped you devoutly. Let me avenge them. Hear my prayer.  
The sound of armour broke their reverie. They moved apart quickly, so it looked as if uncle and  
niece were simply talking beneath a tree. Lothor Brune came into view. “Lord Baelish, we’re  
moving again.”

  
Petyr stood, and reached for Sansa’s hand. Let this man be good for me. Hear my prayer.

  


***

  
The smell of salt and sea spray filled the air no matter which part of the city one ventured in. The  
cries of sea gulls were everywhere. It was not unpleasant, and it reminded Sansa of King’s  
Landing, although it had been warmer there. Lord Shett had welcomed the army into the port city.  
It was swarmed with soldiers and knights, though none of the merchants complained. Lord  
Baelish had spent many a coin here, and was giving the merchants a lot of business with his shipbuilding,  
arms making and need for supplies.

  
The Lords of the Vale, the Queen and her hand had been guests of House Shett for a little under a  
week since their arrival. Although Lord Shett was courteous and polite, Sansa could sense an  
uneasiness about him whenever Lord Baelish entered the room. He does not trust him. She had  
been given a chamber that had a view of the sea. She was there now, looking out over the Bay of  
Crabs, listening to the deafening cry of seagulls. “They’re ready for you, my lady.”

  
Sansa turned and followed the squire out of the room, and down a hallway into a large solar. This  
was the temporary holding of the War Council. High in a tower, we should be on the ground. The  
sounds of armour clanking and sword, instead of seagulls. The room was circular, and around a  
long table that curved in the shape of a U, the Queen’s War Council sat. Sansa sat down in the  
centre of the room on a chair facing them all. The banners of the houses gathered decorated the  
walls. Behind her was the grey direwolf of House Stark. On the walls behind them was the falcon  
on sky blue of House Arryn, the red and white diamond of House Hardyng, the black iron stones  
on a bronze shield of House Royce, the three black ravens in flight holding three hearts of House  
Corbray and the red castle of House Redfort. Although the white mockingbird on a green field  
was also hanging on the wall, the Lord in question had not yet appeared. “My lords, what news  
have you from the North?”

  
Lord Horton Redfort spoke. “Lady Sansa, we have received news that Stannis Baratheon has  
captured Deepwood Motte and restored it to House Glover. Some of the mountain clans have  
joined him. And one of the Umber uncles. He means to march on Winterfell soon enough.”

  
Sansa nodded. Petyr had told her the best scenario would be if Stannis marches on Winterfell and  
either defeats the Boltons or weakens their army and defences if he fails. It would be ideal for  
them to not fight two armies. They would wait for the right moment. Redfort continued. “There is  
a ploy as well. Some of the northmen are saying that although the Karstarks have joined Stannis  
against the Boltons, they will betray him. They seem to be loyal to House Bolton, especially after  
your brother chopped off his father’s head. It could be a trap.”

  
“How many men are truly loyal to the Boltons? And how many of them are pretending allegiance  
out of fear?”

  
“Well, the Dustins and Ryswells are their only true men, my lady. Perhaps, the Karstarks as well,  
although that will soon be proved. Many of the Lords have pledged allegiance to him as Warden  
of the North. There is one man though, our contact who seems to have his own agenda.”

  
Sansa was listening intently. She remembered the faces of the Lords of the North and their sons  
and heirs, when they used to come to Winterfell. “Who is this man?”

  
“Wyman Manderly. It is lucky we are landing in White Harbour. He will be a most useful ally.”  
Sansa remembered Lord Manderly. He had been a good friend of her fathers, loyal even back  
then. She also remembered he could no longer ride his horse due to his weight, and had to be  
carried around on a litter. Pity, but he had soldiers and alliances with other Houses in the North  
that would be useful to them indeed. Just then Lord Petyr sauntered in, smirk on his face as always  
and took his place at the end of the long table, closest to Sansa. He had a rolled up piece of  
parchment in his left hand, and was toying with it.

  
“How nice of you to join us, Lord Baelish. I hope your tardiness is not without good reason. We  
were just discussing the state of the Northern alliances.” Petyr was still toying with the parchment,  
the smirk dancing upon his lips.

  
“My Queen, I would never want to earn your displeasure, but I received a most interesting report  
from King’s Landing.” He paused, waiting until he was sure everyone was listening. “It appears  
the Queen Regent has been arrested and is being detained, awaiting a trial.”

  
The Lords of the Vale gasped. Sansa felt like laughing, but kept an amused expression on her  
face. Without even lifting a finger, Cersei was about to be checked. “Arrested, my lord? Who has  
the authority to arrest a Queen?”

  
Petyr looked very amused indeed. His eyes were twinkling. He’s hiding something. We won’t  
hear the full story now. “The Faith Militant it seems. Cersei gave power to a septon they call the  
High Sparrow to maintain the justice of the Seven. A most devout man. It backfired on her. The  
Queen Regent has many crimes. Incest. Murder. Treason. They shaved off her hair and paraded  
her naked through the streets as penance. All this and Mace and Olenna Tyrell won’t even need to  
use that army marching for the capital.”

  
Sansa took in a sharp breath. The gods were smiling on her. The old gods had heard her. Avenge  
my family. Defeat my enemies. But, Petyr looked too smug. A gift to Olenna Tyrell he had said?  
Perhaps, he played a hand in Cersei’s downfall. Just as he played a hand in Joffrey’s. Clean  
hands, Sansa, whatever you do make sure your hands are clean. No one would suspect him, five  
hundred miles away in the Vale. Let this man be good for me. He was already giving her exactly  
what she wanted. She returned his smirk, a coy smile playing at her own lips.

  
“The crown’s strength is weakening it appears,” she said. “All the better for us, my lords. They  
will be too busy in their own affairs to notice us retake the North.” And the rest of the Seven  
Kingdoms, before they finally notice. “What of Jaime Lannister in the Riverlands?”

  
Lyn Corbray spoke. “He has captured Riverrun from the Tullys. Lord Edmure and his wife, as  
well as your late brother’s wife, a Westerling girl, have been taken as hostages in Casterly Rock.  
My sources tell me he will treat them well. It appears he promised your mother, Lady Sansa, that  
he would not kill a Stark or Tully. He seems to make good on his word.”

  
Sansa nodded. She did not expect that from the Kingslayer. He had thrown her younger brother  
out the window of a high tower for witnessing an incestuous exchange between the knight and  
Queen Cersei. He almost died. Sansa did not doubt she would meet Ser Jaime again, and dispense  
whatever justice he deserved. “And where is he now?”

  
Corbray continued. “On his way to Raventree Hall. The last Tully stronghold. The direwolf still  
flies on its castle battlements. I expect he’ll have a fight there.”

  
Pity. Had they taken the North sooner, it would have been to their advantage to exploit the chaos  
in the Riverlands. With Jaime Lannister keeping all the men in check and sending them home,  
they would have to rally them again. “Very good. Is there anything else, my lords?”

  
Redfort looked as though he wanted to speak again, so Sansa looked in his direction. He seemed  
hesitant. His eyes betrayed him. Redfort was a good man. The only house in the Vale that had  
rallied to Robb’s cause and war. She trusted him. Here he was swearing allegiance to another  
Stark. “My Lord Horton, is there something you wish to share before the Council?”

  
He stood, and starting wringing his hands together. He smacked his lips a few times. He was not a  
nervous man, but something was troubling him. “Lady Sansa, I understand your sister, the  
youngest one, escaped from King’s Landing before your lord father’s death.” He stopped, and  
looked at her.

  
“I only had one sister, my lord. What of Arya?”

  
“No one saw her after that, my lady?”

  
“Lord Baelish did, at Harrenhal when he met Lord Tywin.” She frowned, and looked at Petyr.  
The smug smile was gone. “She was dressed as a boy, and posing as a commoner. He tried to find  
her again, but…” She trailed off. Why were they talking about Arya?

  
Bronze Yohn was growing impatient. “Speak up man! You’re not a blushing maiden!”

  
“They found her, my lady. Arya Stark. She’s been married.”

  
“Married? My sister is thirteen years old. Who has the authority to marry her off? Who has her?”  
she shouted. Sansa could feel her head spinning. Arya Horseface. Her sister was always covered  
in mud, with leaves in her hair. Running after Robb and Jon, hoping they would teach her to  
handle a sword. She was quick as a deer. Fast as a rabbit. She learned to sword fight with the  
dancing master from Braavos. She was chasing cats, last she saw her before she escaped.

  
“The Boltons, my lady. She’s married Roose’s bastard…Ramsay.” Faster and faster her head  
spun. Her vision was blurring. She stood up and started walking towards Redfort, before she  
collapsed.

  


***

  
They were standing over her. Someone had loosened the laces on her corset. She could feel the  
salt sprayed air coming in from an opened window. Her face was damp. A flagon was pressed to  
her lips. She took long gulps. Her vision focused. Petyr was kneeling beside her. Harry looked as  
if he had seen a ghost. A serving woman she did not recognize was holding the flagon to her lips.  
Suddenly, Sansa became very aware of what happened.

  
She tried to stand up, but Petyr helped her up, scooping her into his arms. “Pet—no uncle, put me  
down. I’m fine really.” The look on his face told Sansa he did not believe her for a second, but he  
sat her down on a chair close to the window. “My lords—I apologize. The room was too warm, I  
fear. If you could excuse me, please. We’ll continue in the evening. I need time to recompose  
myself.” They all looked at her, concern in their eyes. But, they cleared the room, all the same.

  
Petyr did not move, but stood at her side. She ignored him. “Lord Horton, please stay.” She  
motioned for him to close the door. She was painfully aware that her hair was a mess, her corset  
not properly closed, but it did not matter. She had lost so much. She could not lose another. Her  
father. Her mother and Robb. Bran and Rickon killed by a man she considered her brother, who  
grew up with her. Not Arya too. She had long assumed that Arya was safe. Escaped and in hiding  
in the Riverlands. Or gone across the Narrow Sea to the Free Cities. Her sister never wanted to be  
a lady, she dressed as a boy. Maybe she was training as a soldier somewhere. Arya would not be  
married. She could not be. She’d slice the man’s nose off before that happened.

  
Lord Redfort was leaning against the table, looking at her intently. She smiled comfortingly.  
“Truly, my lord I am fine. It was a passing spell. I rarely faint, I assure you.” Petyr was standing  
directly behind her. She hated when he did that. She could not see his face and what he was trying  
to hide behind his mask. But, she supposed it was a gesture of protection.

  
“How did you come to find out about my sister and the…Bolton bastard?” She could not say his  
name. She could not imagine it.

  
“It is news all over the North, and in the South too I imagine. The Queen’s men found her and  
brokered a deal with Roose in exchange for his services to the Crown. A Stark girl to strengthen  
their claim on the North.”

  
The Queen’s men? Petyr was on the Small Council before he married Lysa Arryn, but the lord  
was quiet now. He had sources well-placed in every city throughout Westeros and no doubt  
across the Narrow Sea as well. Knowledge is power, he once told her. Why did he not know if this  
was common knowledge? Why did he not tell her? She took another sip of water. “The Bolton  
bastard…what do you know of him?”

  
“Did he not tell you, my lady?” Redfort glanced in Petyr’s direction. “The boy is the Devil  
himself. He kills men for sport. Hunts women in the forest. Some say he flays and wears the skins  
of his enemies. He is cruel and vile.” Redfort’s eyes suddenly lowered. “He married Lady  
Hornwood after her husband’s death and locked her in a tower to starve just so he could claim the  
title.”

  
Fury crept up Sansa’s spine. She said through clenched teeth, “and what is he doing to my sister  
then?”

  
“The gods know, my lady. I am sorry to be the bearer of bad news. But, it brings even stronger  
inspiration to our cause, I assure you. We will not let you down, Lady Stark. We will free the  
North, and rescue your sister from the Boltons.”

  
“I want the Dreadfort to burn to the ground. They burned my home. And have the nerve to rebuild  
it.” She could not recognize the voice coming out of her mouth. All the sadness and crying had no  
room left in her. This voice was full of hate and contempt. Avenge them. “Burn the Dreadfort  
down. Let them know we’re coming,” she shouted.

  
Redfort bowed and left the room. Sansa was alone with Petyr. He moved from behind her chair  
and stood in front of her, leaning on the table in the same place Redfort had been. There was no  
smirk on his face. It was stone. She looked at his eyes and saw---“You knew. You knew all along  
and never thought to tell me,” she spat.

  
Petyr remained composed. “She is not your sister.”

  
Sansa laughed now. Cold and bitter. “And how would you know, my lord? Do your eyes break  
through the walls of Winterfell?” She could not even look at him.

  
He did not approach her, but remained where he stood. “What colour were your sisters eyes?”  
Sansa curled her lip in contempt. “Stark grey. As grey as the dire wolf itself.” She had always  
thought she was better than Arya. Sansa’s eyes were blue and shining. Her auburn hair catching in  
the light. Arya was grey and brown and plain-looking. I would trade all my yesterdays, for just  
one tomorrow. Let me see her again.

  
“Then you will find that the Bolton bride has brown eyes.”

  
“Why are you still here? You knew my sister is probably being raped and abused and yet you tell  
me nothing. Tell me, is that your way to protect me? I’d sooner have heard it from you than faint  
before an entire group of men.”

  
“I did not tell you because it was not the right time. I was going to tell you on the ship to White  
Harbour. I know because I chose and sent the girl.” Sansa gasped. “No one remembers what Arya  
Stark looks like. No one cares. She was too young. This girl knew Winterfell and knew your  
family. She was trained and could act the part. I made sure of that.”

  
“She knew my family? What?” Suddenly, she remembered. Cersei had told Littlefinger to make  
sure Jeyne Poole, her friend who had been locked in Maegar’s Holdfast with her, was gone before  
Sansa returned to her chamber. Her eyes widened. “Jeyne?” she whispered.

  
Petyr shrugged. “I know she was your friend, but back then I did not know you as I do now. Did  
not care for you as I do now. It was a necessary sacrifice to keep Cersei occupied.”

  
I will not cry. Not anymore. I have already lost everyone dear to me. What is Jeyne to me when  
my sister might be spared? “Where is my sister then? My real sister? The one who punched and  
battled boys and would not bend to anyone?”

  
“I do not know, sweetling. I do not know.” His voice was soft, caring, apologizing for bringing up  
pain she had pushed to the very bottom of her mind. “All I know is it was a necessary sacrifice.  
No one deserves to be sold off to Ramsay Bolton, but it had to be done.”

  
“Handing over anyone to torture is not necessary,” she snapped.

  
He chuckled softly. “My love, how many lives have I sacrificed to play this game? She is only  
one more. In war, thousands die. Some swiftly and by the sword. Others are bystanders and  
victims. You were one yourself not too long ago.” He paused, and took the flagon from her. “But,  
you’re strong. And the strong survive. The weak will wither away and lose. Only the strongest  
players remain in the end.”

  
Sansa knew what he was saying made sense, but she could not forgive him. But, could she forgive  
herself? One day, she would be calling the shots and making decisions just like him. She would  
have to choose who lived and who died. I do not want to be a cruel Queen, I’ll make them love  
me. Love was a surer way to people’s hearts. Petyr would not understand that. And she had  
chosen him as her Hand. He lived for the game. Chaos was his god. Still, she forced a smile and  
stood up. Her head felt a bit tingly, but the dizziness was gone. “Quicken the preparations to leave  
Gulltown. I want to sail by the day after tomorrow. Before the snows begin.”

  
“As you command, my Queen.” The smirk was back on his face.

  
She walked towards the door, ignoring him. Sansa realized she would not let him have the final  
word. “And Lord Baelish, next time you wish to sacrifice someone, consult me.” She left without  
another word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in one day! Just because they're both short and need to be separated. An  
> emotional and heart felt moment between our favourite duo! Happy 4th of July!  
> Enjoy and leave a comment!


	13. White Harbour

She was not as nauseous as she had been on her first trip to the Vale, on the Merling King. The  
ship rocked back and forth, but Sansa found that with mint tea she was able to relax a bit more.  
The ship was large, able to hold four hundred men. Their force was ten thousand strong, and their  
fleet consisted of twenty-five large warships. Food had been rationed for the journey, and Sansa  
insisted in eating the simple food of bread and ale her soldiers did and pressed the same for the  
Knights and Lords of the Vale. There was no sense in luxury on a ship, although Petyr snuck up a  
vintage bottle of Arbour Gold. She would be more practical.

  
Her cabin was not large, even though it was the captain’s and was connected by a small hidden  
door to Petyr’s. He had purposely designed it that way, although they had not continued their love  
making. She did not feel comfortable resuming their nighttime escapades, for the ship was  
cramped and sound was sure to carry. And although they drank wine and shared conversation on  
a nightly basis, Sansa could not find it in her to touch Petyr again after his revelation about Jeyne  
Poole. Although it was before their time, she was still disgusted by his actions.

  
They had passed the Three Sisters and were within a few miles from White Harbour. Lord  
Manderly would be expecting them. A call came from above. Land was within sight. Sansa rose  
from where she was sitting on the bed, and moved to a mirror. She was dressed in a light grey  
woollen dress, a dragonfly pin holding her white cloak in place. Her long auburn hair had been  
braided and spun around her head like a crown. Satisfied, she knocked on the adjoining door. No  
answer came. She sighed, wanting to have a quick word with Petyr before they emerged above.  
As she turned away, the door opened and arms pulled her inside.

  
She yelped, but a finger was put to her lips. Petyr Baelish’s eyes swept over her. “The  
homecoming of Lady Stark, daughter of the North. I do believe I kept my promise to you.” He  
pressed his lips to hers for a light kiss. All at once the separation between them the past two weeks  
came crashing down on her. She wanted to be with him.

  
“Petyr, I can’t stay angry with you.” Her eyes were pleading. She could be the ice queen outside  
but behind closed doors with him, she melted.

  
“Oh sweetling, everything I do, I do for you.” They joined lips with ferocity, weeks of separation  
and tension between them coming out in waves. Her face was heated, she desperately wanted  
friction. He reached down and lifted her skirt. Sansa wrapped one leg around his hips, and he  
lifted her up. Petyr loosened his breeches and pulled his cock out. He thrust into her, she moaned  
loudly and he moved a hand over her mouth, quieting her. Although the sound of men running  
above and armour clanking was too loud for anyone to care about the Queen and her Hand. The  
hard wooden door behind her was pressing into her back, but Sansa did not care. With each thrust,  
she was climbing higher and higher. As she came, he replaced the hand covering her mouth with  
his mouth, and she moaned into him. Breathless, he came.

  
He eased her off the wall, and stood back surveying her. Sansa was red and glowing. He  
chuckled. “Don’t go out like this, sweetling. Young Harry will think the innocent Queen has been  
up to no good.”

  
She grabbed a silk handkerchief that was laying on a shelf and wiped the seed dipping down her  
thighs. She slipped it into his pocket. Sansa smiled, “We cannot leave any evidence lying about  
then.”

  
His eyes were still dark, and Sansa sensed that their rushed lovemaking had not completely  
satisfied him. “I have a small gift for you. Turn around.” Sansa obliged, and stood facing away  
from him. She felt his hands caress her shoulders and reach to the front, fingers lightly tracing the  
small amount of cleavage she had showing. She felt her white cloak sliding off, and before she  
could protest, a clip snapped in place. She turned around, facing him. A small direwolf pin had  
replaced her dragonfly, holding her cloak together.

  
“I had it made for you in Gulltown. Now, you shall emerge complete.” He smiled.

  
“It’s beautiful.” She kissed his lips lightly, and took his hand leading him to the door.

  
They emerged on deck, and Lord Hardyng and Royce were waiting for them. Sansa moved  
towards the front of the ship. White Harbour was surrounded by high walls, its walls whitewashed.  
As they entered the main harbour, she saw a second inner harbour which could not be  
seen from The Bite. A few dozen warships were docked. As she looked towards the docks, the  
banner of House Stark was flying high. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief. Lady Stark was home.

  


***

  
Lord Wyman Manderly had welcomed her with open arms, pledging his allegiance to her the  
minute she stepped off the ship. He was a fat, jolly man who loved to laugh and smile. Beside him  
were the men from House Flint of Widow’s Watch, House Locke of Oldcastle and House Glover.  
Each of the Lords and their heirs bowed and kissed her hand, welcoming her home and wishing  
her success in claiming her birthright. As he lea them into New Castle, Lord Manderly explained  
that Houses Umber, Tallhart and Mormont would likely join their cause. It was not all the  
Northern Lords but it was a good majority of them, and for this Sansa was thankful.

  
A huge feast was laid out to welcome them. Sansa worried that they would not be able to feed all  
the men for with the Northern houses, they were well over twenty thousand soldiers in the city.  
But, Lord Manderly was well-provisioned. Many different types of fish were grilled and laid out  
in platters. There was the famous lamprey pie and eel stew. Roasted venison with chestnuts. Fruits  
and cakes of all kinds. Wine flowed endlessly. Sansa was seated beside Lord Manderly, listening  
to a story of the Battle of the Trident during Robert’s Rebellion. Although Sansa listened, she  
longed to discuss battle plans. The city would be overcrowded and despite the provisions, Sansa  
longed to move into an open field.

  
Lord Manderly moved to take another sip of wine, but Sansa placed her hand over her cup. “My  
lord, I had rather hoped to discuss a matter with you, and would prefer it if you had your wits  
about you.” Her smile was friendly, but stern.

  
“Ah, child. You do not need to worry about battle strategies and such. Leave that to your council,  
we’ll make the best decisions for you.”

  
“I am not a child, my lord. I am a Queen,” she snapped. “You pledged your allegiance to me only  
hours ago, do you recall? And my council likes to keep me well informed. I was almost a woman  
grown when I left the North, and I understand it better than the men of the Vale do, although  
perhaps not as well as you.”

  
Lord Manderly regarded her as if seeing her for the first time. He nodded and stood. “Come my  
lady, there is an antechamber just off the gallery. We won’t be disturbed there.” Sansa motioned  
for Lord Harry to follow her. He was the only Lord from the Vale who did not appear to be too  
drunk. Petyr was watching her and moved to stand, but she motioned for him to sit down.  
Lord Manderly took his time leading them out of the noisy hall, and into the quiet antechamber.  
He settled down on large cushioned bench that could have held three men. Sansa took her seat  
across from him, Lord Harry standing beside her.

  
“How soon can we leave the city?” she began.

  
“The men are gathered here, my lady. They will leave at your command.” He cleared his throat.  
“Since I learned of your impending arrival, I gathered several Northern houses and their men. I  
have acted with the utmost discretion. Roose Bolton believes I am to join him against Stannis,  
otherwise he would question the number of soldiers in a port city.”

  
“An excellent notion, my lord. I see you have been building warships as well?”

  
“Aye, my lady. Hiding them in the White Knife where prying eyes would not venture. Though I  
see you have beat my number and in a lesser span of time.” He let out a hearty laugh.

  
Sansa smiled in return, but the smile did not reach her eyes. “Lord Wyman, I must ask you a  
personal question. You went to Winterfell for the Bolton wedding?” Lord Manderly grimaced.  
She continued. “Did you see my…sister?”

  
“My deepest condolences, my lady. She looked very scared and sad. I--”

  
She waved him off. “I am interested in a single answer—did you see the colour of the girl’s  
eyes?”

  
“Her eyes? Aye, my lady. A deep shade of brown.”

  
Sansa exchanged a look with Harry. “Thank you, my lord. You have satisfied my fears. The girl  
married to Ramsay Bolton is not my sister, but an imposter. She was my childhood friend, a girl I  
grew up with who was taken from me at King’s Landing and turned into a common whore. She  
has taken my sister’s place. I will send out a message at once to inform the Lords of the North.”

  
Lord Wyman’s smile was wide. “That gladdens my heart, my lady. I would hate to see Ned  
Stark’s little girl, abused and mistreated by that bastard. He is a rapist and a sadist. His head will  
be put on a spike.”

  
“I would like to see his home burned first, my lord. Just as they burned mine.”

  
“A castle is a castle, my lady. The Dreadfort is old and ancient--”

  
Lord Harry spoke. “And full of blood and screams of torture. It would be better for such a place to  
be destroyed and another castle built in its place. The Crone only knows what horrors occurred  
there.”

  
“Aye, Lord Arryn. Too many to count. Ramsay Bolton only added to the list, though he is evil  
through and through. It will be done.”

  
“I want it done immediately. Lord Baelish has counselled me to not attack Winterfell until Stannis  
and the Boltons battle each other out, until one emerges a victor and we strike while they’re still  
licking their wounds.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Lord Wyman, you were a loyal friend to  
my father. Your son died for my brother. The Northern lords, they will not want to wait, I want  
you to support my plan tomorrow in the War Council meeting. The Lords of the Vale already do,  
but we need Northern support. I cannot be Queen of the North, unless my countrymen support  
me.”

  
“It will be done, my lady. Your ancestors gave us protection when the Manderlys fled from the  
Reach centuries ago. We are loyal to House Stark until the end of time.” Sansa smiled, and moved  
to stand up, but Lord Manderly spoke again. “I sent a man to the island of Skaagos.”

  
“Skaagos?” Sansa remembered the stories Old Nan had told her and Bran about Skaagos.  
Northmen more wilding and savage than the rest, who feasted on human flesh. She shuddered.  
“Why would you ever send any man there?”

  
“You may not be the last surviving Stark, Lady Sansa. A mute boy who was squire to Theon  
Greyjoy claimed he saw two boys escape with two wolves. He cannot speak, but he can draw.  
The man has not returned, we won’t know until he returns.”

  
Sansa gasped. “That’s not possible. Theon.” She hated him, she hated his name. “Theon Greyjoy  
murdered my brothers. Two innocent boys under the age of ten. He burned their bodies and hung  
them in Winterfell for all to see.”

  
“I do not wish to open old wounds, Lady Sansa. I will keep a few hundred men in White  
Harbour, and if the man returns with Rickon Stark, a rider will come to us.”

  
Rickon. She had last seen him when he was three years old. A boy of six now. “How could  
Rickon…it’s not possible…”

  
Lord Wyman’s face was kind and gentle. “You mean the youngest cannot survive war and  
cruelty? I say, they are far better at it than the older ones. Who would suspect a boy of six,  
travelling around with his mother?”

  
“And what of Bran? My brother was crippled…” Sansa could feel her heart beating rapidly.

  
“No one has seen him, my lady. I do not wish to open old wounds and cause you to mourn for  
them all over again. You have lost so much. I merely wanted to inform you.”

  
Sansa nodded. “Thank you Lord Manderly, you are a loyal friend. I shall remember all that you  
have done for my family.”

  
“You are not alone, my lady. Your half-brother, Jon Snow is Lord Commander of the Night’s  
Watch.”

  
“And he has sworn a holy vow never to hold a title or win lands or glory. He did not fight for  
Robb, and he loved Robb more than anyone. Why would he fight for me?”

  
“You may be surprised. He too has mourned their deaths, I am sure. Write to him, my lady. Tell  
him you are here and you came to free the North.”

  
Sansa stood. In her heart, she knew Jon would not come for her. When Myranda Royce had first  
told her of the new Lord Commander, she wished she could see him again. Stone and Snow.  
“Again, my lord. Thank you for all you have done for me.” She left the room quietly, with Lord  
Harry trailing behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is slowly finding about her family members! Anyone sense a family reunion?  
> :D  
> Let me know what you think!


	14. An Amicable Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petyr's POV

Lord Petyr Baelish was awake long before the sun made its appearance in the morning sky. He  
needed very little sleep and relished in the quiet hours of the morning when he could think freely  
and without interruption. The charms of the North were lost on him. He found its inhabitants too  
rough and brutish. The men were hard and strong, and as he had surveyed the room during the  
feast last night, he wondered how Sansa was so different from them.

  
As she sat beside Lord Manderly conversing and laughing, he wondered how she was Eddard  
Stark’s daughter. Arya, the younger one was Ned’s true daughter. Unruly and boyish. She was so  
like her Aunt Lyanna who loved horses, but even then she had been a beauty. The more Petyr had  
watched Sansa as she interacted with the Northern Lords, the more he realized it was Ned Stark  
that was the problem, not the Starks themselves. The family had survived for eight thousand years,  
while other ancient houses had fallen. Honour and loyalty alone could not be the only traits the  
Starks had. To survive in the game, one needed a certain cunning. He did not doubt that earlier  
Starks had some level of intelligence and keen wit.

  
The intelligence had no doubt skipped a generation. Brandon Stark was a true Northman too,  
brutish and short-tempered like his brother. But, the children. The younger Starks had somehow  
survived, where their parents could not. Sansa had survived King’s Landing, all the while  
pretending to love the Lannisters, using unsuspecting manipulation and quick wit. A mask. Arya.  
Whatever the girl was, Petyr did not doubt she was alive. When he had seen her at Harrenhal, she  
was disguised as Tywin Lannister’s serving boy. He had laughed inside. Tywin had a Stark girl  
right beneath his nose and he never even sniffed it out. She was adaptive. And the bastard brother  
was now Lord Commander in less than three years. Jon Snow.

  
Petyr’s thoughts were interrupted when a light knock sounded on his door. He glanced outside,  
the sunrise had barely began. He walked silently as was his habit and opened the door. Sansa  
Stark swept in, and stopped at his desk. Even though they would not be staying in White Harbour  
for more than a few days, Petyr had ordered a desk be brought to his rooms. There was always  
work to be done.

  
“Is it wise to come into my chambers this early? One might think you had spent the night here.”

  
But, she was already dressed and ready, although she wore the same clothes from yesterday.  
She sat down on his chair. It was her habit. Wherever they went, Sansa always loved to take his  
chair, what she considered his seat of power. It was a game she played. Trying to show him she  
was in control at that moment. “A Queen can converse with her Hand at any time of day.” She  
toyed with the direwolf pin at her chest. “I needed to speak with you while the rest of the castle  
sleeps.”

  
He moved closer to her. “If it was so urgent, you could have enlightened me last night. Or was  
Lord Harry a better companion?” He smirked.

  
Sansa rolled her eyes, and flashed him a smile. “Jealous, my lord?”

  
“Choosing Harry to speak to Lord Manderly was not a wise option. You were better off taking  
Lord Redfort or Royce in his stead. Do not forget he once had affections for you. The more  
distance you keep, the better.”

  
Sansa scoffed. “He’s a married man.”

  
“And since when have married men been faithful when tempted by beautiful ladies?” She was  
silent and stared at him.

  
“You are still innocent in many ways, sweetling. This is all new to you. Keep Harry at bay.”

  
Sansa glared at him. But, Petyr knew she knew he was right. “What did you want to tell me,  
sweetling?”

  
“Rickon may be alive.” The glare was gone, and confusion and uncertainty filled her face. The  
youngest brother? A boy of six?

  
“And Lord Manderly told you this?”

  
She nodded. “He said a mute boy saw two boys and two huge wolves leaving Winterfell. The boy  
was squire to Theon when he held the castle.”

  
“And the testimony of a mute is to be believed? Let alone a child.” He waved it off. “Children are  
imaginative, Sansa. He could have confused the wolves with large dogs. I imagine he drew  
pictures to communicate?”

  
“Y-yes…he did.” She sighed. “I knew I may be clinging to false hope, but if he is alive… Oh  
Petyr, to even have one of them with me would be a dream.”

  
Petyr smiled at her sadly. “And how many dreams come true, sweetling?” he said quietly. He  
walked over to her and took her hands. “I know you miss your siblings. When the war is over, I  
will send out men to look for your sister. If anyone is alive, it’s her. Not many can outwit Lord  
Tywin.”

  
Sansa laughed lightly at that, but her smile did not reach her eyes. “Lord Manderly told me I  
should write to Jon Snow. But, I told him he swore a holy vow before the old gods and would not  
break it.”

  
Petyr perked up at that and stood. “Did he now?” He circled around the desk, letting his fingers  
drag on the smooth, polished wood. The Night’s Watch would be of no help to their war, he  
imagined they had less than five hundred men to guard all nineteen towers. But, Petyr was very  
interested in Jon Snow. If he could meet him once, the boy himself would be a very useful ally.  
But, he dropped the matter for now. “What else did you discuss with Lord Manderly?”

  
“I told him I wanted him to support our plan to wait until Stannis marches on Winterfell and  
emerges either a victor or a dead man before we attack, and how we would split our forces and  
burn down the Dreadfort.” Petyr nodded. It was an excellent notion to inform Lord Manderly in  
advance. He had gathered the Northern lords and having his support would be beneficial. Petyr  
could sense the jovial, fat man was far more than he appeared to be. He would have to watch out  
for him.

  
She had hesitated, and Petyr looked up at her. “And…and I want you to send letters to all the  
Northern castles informing them that Arya Stark is an imposter.”

  
“And why would I do that?”

  
“Because she is. If they know the girl is not a true Stark, then it makes the Boltons look  
treacherous and deceitful and more houses will flock to our side.” She bit her lip. It was not a  
strong argument.

  
“What did I once tell you? Know your strengths, use them wisely. Right now we benefit from  
keeping Arya Stark in place. No doubt her abuse and mistreatment are already making the  
Northern lords uncomfortable and resentful. The Boltons are already the most despised family in  
the North. And any Lord who will swear allegiance to you will do so without uncovering their  
little lie.” He cocked his head. “We do not want Roose Bolton to sniff out our presence just yet.  
Any rumours of the appearance of Sansa Stark is one thing, but to announce your appearance is  
another. You want the Dreadfort burned? Stealth is an advantage. You don’t men for it.”

  
Sansa did not answer him. He could see she was absorbing what he had said in. After a few  
moments, she met his eyes. “What do you mean?”

  
Petyr smiled conspiringly.

  
By the time he emerged from his rooms, the sun was already climbing the sky and the War  
Council already in the Mermen’s Court. He sauntered in, smug smile in place as always. Lord  
Wyman’s giant throne had been pushed to the right, and a chair had been brought to the centre of  
the room in its place, where Sansa Stark sat. Although she wore the same clothes from yesterday,  
she looked fresh and beautiful. The same could not be said for the Lords in the room, many who  
had indulged in many a cup of wine the night before.

  
“Ah, Lord Baelish. Wipe that smile off your face man! You’re late as usual,” yapped Bronze  
Yohn.

  
“I’m an amicable man, Lord Royce. The smile will stay,” he japed. He took his place on a stool  
beside Sansa.

  
“Leave my Hand alone, Lord Royce.” Sansa’s eyes twinkled. “A good Hand knows what the  
Queen will discuss long before the discussion begins.” Petyr glanced about the room. From the  
way Manderly was looking at him, it looked as if he would rather be in Petyr’s place. He nodded  
mockingly in his direction and Manderly scowled. He would definitely have to watch him.

  
Petyr barely listened as an argument ensued between the Northern Lords and the Lords of the  
Vale over which strategy was best. He was analyzing faces and expressions on the men in the  
room, trying to understand any hidden intent or malice. Most of them just looked angry. The  
strung together arguments that he doubted they understood themselves. No court intrigue here.  
Eventually, they agreed that the Flint men and Bronze Yohn would take three hundred men to the  
Dreadfort and burn it down. Then wait for the command to march on Winterfell. The rest of the  
army would go into the Barrowlands and free Barrowtown while Stannis and the Boltons battled  
out. For someone who was not a military tactician, Petyr’s plan was the one that was chosen,  
although none of the men knew it. There was some argument about the small number, as the  
Dreadfort was bound to have three times that force, but it was a fortress that had stood for  
thousands of years. Force could not be used to burn a castle down, stealth could. Eventually, the  
men settled down, though Petyr supposed they were hungry and irritated for their midday meal.

  
As the men left the room, for Sansa had ordered everyone to prepare to leave tomorrow in their  
separate directions, she turned to Petyr. “Is the crate safe?”

  
He smirked. “I would judge that by the lack of explosions and death on our journey, it remains  
intact.”

  
“Good. How many would it take to burn down a castle?”

  
“Half a crate. Wildfire is a most deadly weapon.”

  
“No, my lord. That would be you.” She extended her arm, and he stood taking it. Her siblings  
might be alive, but Sansa was the only one playing the game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to fix a few things in my plan for the next few chapters, but I don't plan on  
> writing out the details for small battles such as Moat Cailin, Barrowton or Torrhen's  
> Square which will span the next 5 chapters or so. There's a bit of a shocker coming  
> up and a few twists and turns, so get ready for this crazy ride :D


	15. A Mask of Grief

The journey across the frozen landscape was treacherous. The North was cold and unforgiving.  
Petyr had joked that with all the rocks and loose stones, it might have been better to ride on mules  
as they did in the Vale. But the men Sansa rode with were Northerners, and even their horses  
were better able to navigate the landscape. Which is why the few hundred horses brought from the  
Vale were left in White Harbour. The carriage gilded with the silver mockingbird was left behind  
as well, much to Petyr’s chagrin, though a litter had been brought should the Queen seek its  
warmth. Sansa found no need. As in the Vale, Sansa rode out in the open, the wind and cold  
biting at her face. Lord Manderly was left behind as well, the trek across the North would be long  
and dangerous and his frame was too large to carry across the steep hills and paths they were to  
take, avoiding the Kingsroad. When the time came for them to attack Winterfell, he would lead  
more men up the White Knife in his warships. For now, they rode at a hard speed. Winter was  
coming. The snow had already begun, and Sansa hoped they would set up camp in a span of land  
close to Barrowton, so they could lay siege.

  
On the way, they raised the dire wolf banner at Moat Cailin, but found it was otherwise  
unoccupied. There were many dead bodies frozen over and green as of from rot or an illness, and  
Petyr ordered the men to burn them lest infection and disease spread when a thaw came. Many  
villages were abandoned, its inhabitants fled. Frozen bodies lay everywhere and Sansa felt sick to  
her stomach. It was the work of Ramsay Bolton, the Northern Lords agreed. How could these  
Northern Lords bend the knee to the Boltons, when their combined forces outnumbered them?  
How could they allow such cruelty and sadism to fall upon the smallfolk? Why had they not  
rebelled against the Boltons long ago? And why had no one killed Ramsay Bolton? Just a few  
years ago, no one had heard his name. Sansa did not recall Roose Bolton having a bastard son,  
though she had heard of his true son, Dormeric. Lord Locke had told her that Dormeric had been  
poisoned by his half-brother. Bastards were born of passion, of fire and rage, he had said. But,  
kinslaying was a crime before the old gods. It was a sacrilege. Not all bastards were bad.  
Tommen and Mrycella Baratheon had been gentle. Mya Stone was an obedient and trustworthy  
servant. And Jon Snow. Her half-brother had been loving and kind. She remembered how much  
he loved Arya, Robb and Bran. Whatever Ramsay Bolton was, she decided it was not a result of  
his bastard blood alone.

  
But, Sansa was truly horrified when they came upon a town two day’s ride from Barrowtown. It  
lay in ruins. Houses and buildings had been burned to the ground. Cattle were slain everywhere.  
And the skins of flayed men and women, even children were stretched out amongst the trees.  
Petyr tried to shield her from the horrifying view by stepping his mount in front of her. “Look  
away, sweetling.”

  
She brushed him off, and dismounted from her charger. Had it not been so cold, the smell of death  
and decay would have been rancid in the air. She looked at the fleshless mound that appeared to  
be the size of a child. Fury ebbed in her chest. “Take them down, all of them. And burn them.”  
How could the North have turned into this? A hunting ground for a mad man? What special  
battles had Ramsay Bolton won for the North to fear him? “And search the town for any  
survivors.”

  
Petyr stood behind her. “My lady, there cannot be any survivors. The scene is too…” For once,  
even he was at a loss of words.

  
She tried to focus. Her rage for the desecration of her homelands could only be directed at one  
family. And she could only avenge her own family and all the slain smallfolk if she directed her  
attentions in defeating them. “We need to set camp soon.”

  
Petyr nodded. “In a few hours, we will reach a flat plain of land. From there we shall send scouts  
to assess Barrow Hall’s defences.”

  
“Is Lady Dustin there?” She tried to focus on Petyr’s face, looking at the contours and angles.  
“I am told Lady Dustin is clinging to Roose Bolton.” He looked at her with concern, despite his  
steady voice.

  
“Then she is just as accountable for these crimes as he is.” She stared off into the distance, trying  
to calm her mind. She turned, walking away from the sight with Petyr at her side when she heard  
a shout.

  
“Lady Stark! Lady Stark! There is a girl we found!” Sansa moved away from Petyr and towards  
the soldier. “Bring her to me immediately.” A girl? How could a girl survive in this frozen land  
without food or proper shelter from the elements?

  
The girl was brought before her, held by the soldier. “Let her go, Ser. She is of no threat to me.”  
The girl stepped before Sansa, keeping her eyes on the ground. She was small, around twelve or  
thirteen years of age with scraggly blond hair and green eyes.

  
Sansa regarded her softly. “There is no need to be afraid, child. No harm will come to you  
anymore.”

  
The girl slowly met Sansa’s eyes. “I’m not afraid,” she whispered.

  
Sansa smiled. “Tell me your name, child?”

  
“Yara.” She looked frail, as if she had not eaten in weeks. But, her voice was strong. And she was  
alive. Somehow, this small girl had survived these horrors.

  
“Where are you parents, Yara?”

  
“Gone long ago. A friend was taking care of me. He died too. Ramsay Bolton made sure of that.”  
She spat on the ground.

  
Sansa’s eyes were full of concern. She spoke gently. “My parents are gone too, Yara. What killed  
them?”

  
“Loyalty.” Her eyes were unwavering. Sansa felt a little unsettled. Whatever horrors this girl had  
seen, she had no innocence about her. The world had stripped her of it. Sansa felt her heart go out  
for her. If she could protect one innocent from any more horrors, then she would. “Yara, you are  
alone now. Where will you go?”

  
“With you, milady.”

  
“Why me?” Although Sansa would have taken in the girl either way, she was curious. This girl  
looked weak and frail, but her mind was sharp.

  
“Because you are going to fight Ramsay Bolton. I would like to see my friend avenged.” She was  
strong, whatever had happened to her, this girl was strong.

  
“I can promise you that, child. His crimes will not gone unpunished. Justice will be served.” She  
reached out and took the girl’s hand. She was freezing. Sansa unpinned her cloak, and wrapped it  
around the small child. “Come, have some hot soup and bread. You must not have eaten in days.”  
She looked at the clothes the girl was wearing, full of holes and bloodied. She brought the child  
into her litter, and a bowl of bread and soup was brought in. The girl watched her intently as  
Sansa ripped one of her woollen cloaks, and began to make the girl a dress.

  
The girl dipped the bread in the soup, and hungrily licked her fingers. “You are kind, milady. I  
wish there was a way for me to repay you. I’m no good at needlework. But, I can help around the  
campsite. Polish steel and what not.”

  
Sansa regarded her thoughtfully, as she pulled the thread through the fabric. “Was your father a  
blacksmith?”

  
“No. But, I’m good with a bow and arrow. I know how to fight.”

  
Sansa laughed. Arya would have liked this girl. Her sister had lessons from a Braavosi dancing  
master. “My sister liked to sword fight too.” The litter was warm and safe, shielded away from the  
cold. Sansa had not sat inside a shelter in days, and she welcomed the relief from the wind. She  
looked up at the lack of a response.

  
The girl had stopped eating, and was staring at her. Sansa once again felt unsettled. Usually, the  
smallfolk, particularly women and children were often shy and bashful in front of high lords and  
ladies. But this girl had no fear in her eyes. No uncertainty. “Where is she now? Your sister?”  
Sansa matched her stare. She inhaled sharply. “I do not know. She is lost. We were separated  
many years ago.” It felt like a hundred years ago since she had first arrived in King’s Landing. A  
hundred years since she had teased Arya.

  
“She’s not married to Bolton’s bastard then?”

  
Sansa chuckled softly. “No, not my sister. My sister would beat Ramsay Bolton bloody.”

  
The girl laughed at that. Then her face darkened, as if she remembered something. They stayed  
quiet for a few moments, and Sansa thought they would remain in silence. Then the girl spoke  
again. “If you ever saw your sister again…the lost one. What would you say to her?”

  
For some unknown reason, Sansa felt tears at the back of her throat. I would tell my sister I was  
sorry for calling her ugly. I would tell her she would not marry Hodor, but be a lady knight if she  
wanted. I would tell my sister she was right about Joffrey. I would kiss her cheeks and hold her so  
tight she would never get lost again. She looked at the girl through tear-stained eyes. Sansa had  
not cried in front of anyone except Petyr. Who was this girl to rub salt in old wounds? Who was  
she to unlock Sansa’s private memories? “Why are you asking me this?”

  
But, the girl had gone back to hungrily eating her soup, and never said another word.

  


***

  
In the end, Sansa had deemed it was not right for a young girl to be roaming about the camp with  
men, polishing their swords and boots. They might have mistaken her for one of the whores that  
tended to be drawn to soldiers. Instead, Sansa kept the girl close to her. She was used to having  
handmaidens all her life, and although she had lived and done well without one for weeks, it was  
a welcome relief to have someone brush the few gowns and cloaks she had brought with her. The  
girl could brush her hair well enough, but knew nothing about styles. It felt nice to have a child  
around. Sansa had grown up with younger siblings, and despite the pain he was, Sansa had not  
minded Robin Arryn all that much. It felt right caring for a small child again, even though the girl  
did not need much care.

  
But, Yara did not speak much. She did not prattle on like children usually did. She was quiet and  
watching. She often asked questions about war and the soldiers. Sansa assured her she should not  
worry about these things, and that they would be successful, but that did not seem to satisfy her.  
Petyr did not like Sansa’s new companion. It made it harder for him to caress her leg or whisper  
secrets in her ear as they shared a cup of wine in her tent. He thought she was a spy the way she  
asked questions, but Sansa shrugged him off assuring him she was just willful and headstrong.  
Yara did not like Petyr either for some reason, though Sansa supposed it was because Petyr had a  
tendency to read people easily and this girl was hard to read. She too wears a mask. Those hers is  
likely of grief and despair.

  
After another long day’s ride, they had reached the promised flat plain of land. Camp was set up,  
and scouts were sent out to assess the defences. Barrow Hall was built upon the Great Barrow  
Hills, which were said to house the remains of the First Giant King. It was not built from stone,  
but wood and had three towers. According to the scout reports, it was not heavily guarded and  
housed an estimated two thousand soldiers. It was not a fortified castle, so the War Council  
decided a standard battle plan would easily take the castle. They decided to take four thousand  
men, a battering ram made from a recently cut cedar tree and grappling hooks. Sansa wanted to  
ride out with the army to inspire them, but Petyr advised against it. Her presence would be needed  
at far greater battles, and the castle would fall easily. He was right. The battle lasted the night,  
before the castle fell and the banner of the Stark direwolf was raised over its battlements.

  
As they entered Barrowton, crowds gathered to watch the Queen of the North. She rode her horse  
through the streets, head held high. At first, the crowd was hesitant and she heard murmurs among  
them. As she moved forward, a little girl threw a crown of white flowers that landed in her lap.  
She blew the girl a kiss and smiled. The crowd cheered and soon enough cries of “Lady Stark!  
Lady Stark!” resonated throughout the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small victories lead to the end goal! Yara is a character I created, who is really not  
> what she seems and will come to play an integral role in later chapters. BIG  
> SHOCKER coming after a chapter or two that might make some people a bit angry  
> with me :| all in the creative process!  
> As always, comments are appreciated and constructive criticism as well :D


	16. Redfort

It had been an easy victory. They lost less than three hundred men, and the majority of the Dustin  
men had been slain. They had captured a few prisoners, and Ser Lyn Corbray proudly presented  
Damon, a Bolton cousin. The bodies were cleared and the Great Hall’s fires rekindled.

  
Servants created a large feast, and the Lords of the Vale and North celebrated their victory,  
drinking to the health of their Queen. Sansa toasted to them as well, and to their bravery and valor  
in battle. She drank and ate with them, but her mind was far away.

  
The gates of the castle were open, and Sansa decided to take a walk. A guard moved to follow her  
but she waved him away. She passed through the gate and walked towards the edge of the castle,  
overlooking the hills. Lord Horton Redfort had left the merriment behind him as well, and was  
sitting thirty feet away on a frozen rock. Sansa made her way over to him. “You’re not cold, my  
lord?” He looked at her, as if seeing her for the first time, then smiled. “We’re in between, you  
know. Not really from the South, but not really from the North. I can stand the cold, my lady.”

  
Sansa smiled. “May I sit with you a while? I find I do not have the taste for merriment tonight.”  
He nodded his head, and Sansa sat down beside him on the large rock. It had a good view as it sat  
on a hill and below them was a slope. Ahead, she could see the frozen ground for miles ahead,  
empty. Above them were a thousand shining stars.

  
She noticed he had a horn of mulled wine, and took a sip every few minutes or so. “Is something  
troubling you, Lord Redfort?”

  
He was silent for a minute or two. Sansa did not mind. She would take silence over noise and  
revelry. She found she did not have the stomach for laughter right now. When he finally spoke,  
his voice was soft and gentle. He sounded as if he was a thousand miles away, lost in his thoughts.  
“You are a lot like her, you know. Not just in the way you look. I knew your mother, and your  
brother. Your mother was a kind woman. Noble and loyal to her own. She would have torn down  
all the known world just to find you. Robb was furious when she freed Jaime Lannister, trusting  
him and that woman knight to bring you back. A fair trade.” He drank from his horn of wine, and  
continued to stare into the distance, as if she wasn’t even beside him. “Robb was a friend to us all.  
He would have made a good Lord of Winterfell. Better than your father. He was not blinded by  
honour. He understood it, but knew when to draw back. He used to walk amongst us. Know your  
men, he would say. Do not let people die for you without knowing them.”

  
Sansa’s smile was sad. She remembered how empty and broken she had felt when she learned of  
the murder at the Twins. It was Robb she cried for. “I loved Robb. He was my favourite brother.  
For a while, before my half-brother Jon came, it was just him and I. We used to play lady and  
knight. Just the two of us running around the castle as children. Then we grew up, and we used to  
talk about our dreams. He loved my singing voice, told me I sounded just like a song bird. He was  
going to be the Lord of Winterfell one day. And I the lady of a great and ancient house. I was  
going to be a queen...” She trailed off, lost in fond memories.

  
“He went to war for you and your sister. When Lyanna was abducted by Prince Rhaegar, your  
uncle Brandon went to find her. And Ned went to war for them. Funny, isn’t it? He did the same  
for you.” He took another sip of wine. “Yes my lady, there is kindness and love and loyalty in  
you. Just like your mother and father. But, they could not survive outside the walls of Winterfell,  
could they? Too caught up in honour and justice. You. Half of you is them. The other half…”

  
She finished for him. “The other half is everyone I ever knew from King’s Landing. The other  
half is Margaery Tyrell. Tyrion and Cersei Lannister. Joffrey. The Hound.” She swallowed.  
“Petyr Baelish…”

  
He looked at her then, regarding her. “Do you love him?” The question caught Sansa off guard.  
Since they left the Eyrie, they had been very careful to avoid appearing too intimate. Sneaking  
kisses in forests or dark-lit rooms. She never let on that she loved him. And Petyr himself was hard  
to read by most people. How did Lord Horton know? “My lord?”

  
“Oh come now, my lady. There is no shame in it. A lot of the men don’t like him. They think he is  
sneaky and full of cunning. But, he is not a cruel man. And you should see the way he looks at  
you—like you’re the ocean and he’s desperate to drown.”

  
“He’s my uncle.”

  
He scoffed. “Uncle? He was your uncle when he married your aunt Lysa for those few days.  
When she died, that released him from that bound. He was not your uncle in King’s Landing and  
he is not your uncle now.”

  
Sansa pursed her lips, and chose her words carefully. It would not bode well for the men to think  
she was a girl in love. They would think Petyr Baelish had drove her into war, and she was  
merely his puppet, pulling her strings. “He is my protector and my Hand. There are very few men  
who have his experience and talents. He--”

  
“And one day, he will be your King.”

  
Sansa was shocked. “I am only Queen in the North, my lord.”

  
“When you’re ready, Lady Sansa. When you’ve captured Winterfell, and the Boltons are dead,  
and you proclaim your brother, if he is found as Lord of Winterfell. When you have a huge army  
left, what do you do? Send those men home with a pat on the back. No, my lady. You move back  
south. And you destroy the Freys and Lannisters. You have the North, the Vale, the Riverlands  
and the Westerlands by name, the two of you. You are still married to Tyrion, and if he dies,  
Casterly Rock is yours by right. The Stormlands will bend the knee, the Baratheons and Starks  
can never be foes. It seems Lady Olenna and Lord Baelish have a good relationship, so there’s the  
Reach. What’s left? The Crownlands and Dorne. And before anyone says it, my lady, I would say  
you annex Dorne and let them have their own kingdom.” He stood up then, slightly tipsy.

  
Sansa remained seated on the rock. “And you’ve figured this all out on your own, my Lord  
Redfort?” Clearly, the man had been thinking about this for days. Either that or it was drunken  
ramblings.

  
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, things are simple. This may be my last war, my lady. I  
intend to back a strong ruler, who has the right family name and will be loved by millions. A kind,  
yet shrewd ruler. And when you’re ready Lady Sansa, you let me know. I’ll be the first one to  
swear allegiance to you.”

  
“For what cause, my lord?”

  
“For the realm, my lady. Marry Baelish in front of the old gods in Winterfell. When you turn  
south, do not make the mistake that Robb made. You do not want another false Frey alliance.  
Promises of marriage built deceit. Win them with loyalty and love.” He tried to bow but failed at  
it, then turned to go.

  
Sansa sensed Lord Redfort was a loyal and kind man. He had fought for her father and King  
Robert, and then her brother and now her. Would he betray her? “And you will keep my secret,  
my lord?”

  
He stopped and turned back to face her. His eyes, she always looked to people’s eyes to look at  
their true intentions. His were slightly tearful and sad. “You are my Queen. This old man will  
never betray you, I promise you that. Goodnight, my lady.”

  
Sansa stayed out in the cold. She needed to feel the bite of the wind on her skin to remind her that  
any of this was real. How many false promises had she heard? She had been lied to countless  
times. But, Sansa was fighting a war, not playing at one and things would have to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More of a filler chapter, but I needed to create more genuine and trustworthy people  
> for Sansa in this story. UPCOMING BATTLE IN THE NEXT CHAPTER! Stay  
> tuned :D


	17. Do Not Let Them Die For A Stranger

“Dagmer Cleftjaw, an ironborn warrior holds Torrhen’s Square.”

  
They were in a tent, the wind trying to win the battle against the pegs holding the tent together. It  
was colder than Sansa had ever remembered, even when dressed in her warmest furs and cloaks.  
After installing a garrison of two thousand men to defend Barrowton, they departed to capture  
Torrhen’s Square, the last stop before Winterfell. The snows were deep, piling up in deep drifts  
everywhere. The horses moved slower, and the carts had difficultly being pulled through.

  
Sansa felt bad for the lesser soldiers. Many did not have furs to keep them warm. She did not feel  
it was right for her to be warm and cozy while her army all but froze, even in their tents. The day  
before, she had helped the cooks spoon soup into bowls and handed them to the soldiers as they  
formed an unending line, thanking every one for their bravery and valor. Petyr had commented it  
was an excellent tactic to keep morale high, but Sansa had done it out of the goodness of her heart.  
It was something her lady mother would have been proud of. Know your men. Do not let them die  
for a stranger, Lord Redfort had said Robb had said. She could not help but think they were her  
father’s words. Stark, through and through.

  
“Stannis Baratheon closes in on Winterfell as the days go by. We hear he has Asha Greyjoy with  
him, having taken Deepwood Motte. This is the last Greyjoy stronghold in the North,” reported  
Lord Locke.

  
“Torrhen’s Square is not far from the Motte. Will he not try and take it?” said Sansa.

  
Locke chuckled. “He is not a Northerner, my lady. The snows must be terrifying him.” This drew  
laughter from around the tent. “And neither is Dagmer.”

  
“He has Lady Eddara and her young cousins hostage there. We must be careful not to have their  
blood on our hands,” said one of the Flint men.

  
“It’s a strong castle, and the Ironborn themselves can be deadly,” put in Lyn Corbray.  
“Then we shall think like an Ironborn,” spoke Petyr quietly. They all turned to look at him. He  
shrugged. “Theon Greyjoy took Winterfell by stealth. In the dead of the night, send twenty men or  
so to scale the walls and open the portcullis from the inside. Then storm the castle.” He smiled  
with a flourish.

  
The room erupted into loud murmuring as the Lords debated it. Sansa zoned out of their argument.  
Theon Greyjoy. A hostage of Winterfell again. He had been an arrogant and cocky young man,  
and had often snuck glances at her during family dinners. Jeyne Poole had giggled, as she had  
found him very handsome but Sansa was annoyed. She liked Theon well enough as a child, he  
was very funny and always had a joke or two to spare. But, Sansa had bigger dreams than having  
her father’s ward chase after her. He had been a hostage, but his captivity in Winterfell had been  
filled with love and laughter. He was a friend to all her brothers. Lord Eddard had raised him as  
his own. After all that, he came back and betrayed them? Bran. Theon had been teaching Bran  
how to shoot an arrow. She could not imagine anyone being cruel to Bran. He was such a bright  
and spirited boy. Sansa realized how much she missed Bran. While Arya had been running after  
Robb and Jon, Bran had been close to Sansa. She told him stories and he had wanted to be a  
knight. He might have been a knight in the Kingsguard had I been Queen. Had Theon hated them  
the whole time? No longer a man, they had said. He was Ramsay Bolton’s hostage now. After  
seeing what Ramsay was capable of, she wondered if there was any Theon left in this new ghost  
of a person.

  
Petyr reached over and squeezed her hand, and Sansa broke out of her reverie and have him a  
reassuring smile. He took a sip out of his goblet of wine, the ever present smirk wide on his face  
as he watched the Northern Lords and Lords of the Vale argue over the best technique.  
“I’ve heard a tale from our friends to the East.” He kept his eyes on the men. “It appears the  
Dreadfort is no more.”

  
“And our friends?” She cocked an eyebrow him, though her happiness was bubbling just below  
the surface.

  
“On their way to Castle Cerwyn to await our raven to attack.”

  
“And the Boltons suspect nothing?”

  
“I daresay no man lived to tell the tale. Fire consumes all.” His smile was playful, a twinkle in his  
eyes.

  
Sansa sat back relieved. The Dreadfort and all its torture mechanisms were no more. The seat of  
House Bolton was destroyed, burned into rubble. She raised her goblet to him and winked. “Fire  
is power.”

  
Petyr chuckled. “Not as powerful as cunning.” He took a sip of his wine. “Amazing how you can  
plant a seed and watch it grow before your very eyes. The wind and rain battle it for dominance,  
but eventually it emerges complete and unscathed. An idea is very much the same.” He nodded in  
the direction of the Lords.

  
It appeared the debate was over. “Lady Stark,” said Lord Harry, puffing out his chest despite his  
red face. It appeared he had been yelling for quite some time, though Sansa could not say what  
side of the argument he was on. “With your approval, we will launch our attack on Torrhen’s  
Square within two days. We will send ten of our smallest men to climb the castle walls and slay  
the soldiers guarding it. They will open the gates and we will storm the castle undetected. We will  
move without horses and with the greatest stealth.” Murmurs of consent and a few grumbles could  
be heard from the Lords gathered.

  
Sansa sat back in her chair. “Approved,” she said with a slight tilt of her head. She glanced at  
Petyr, and the smug smile was firmly in place.

  
…

  
The howling never stopped. She woke up with a shudder. In the distance, a lone wolf howled.  
Sorrowful and sad. Sansa pulled her covers closer around her, and reached for her candle. The  
wick was almost to the bottom and the flame had begun to sputter. She sat up and leaned the light  
towards the tent flap. No shadows. No sound but the wind. No one.

  
But, Sansa could not shake the feeling that her dream was a premonition. A premonition of wolves  
and fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SO EXCITED FOR THE NEXT CHAPTER! And the ones after!  
> BTW, I am so undecided about what to do with Theon. Part of me wants to kill him  
> off but the other half wants to have him play a larger role. There's an interesting fan  
> theory about Theon and his archery skills that comes out of his chapter in The Winds  
> of Winter...  
> Let me know your thoughts guys :D


	18. Battle for Torrhen's Square

“Have they made it in?” All was quiet. Sansa could hear an owl hooting. It was as if an army the  
size of seven thousand was not waiting just beyond the bend in the road, hidden from view in the  
wolfswood.

  
Sansa and Lord Baelish, along with a dozen personal guards were on a hill watching over the  
square-built castle. They were dressed all in black, so as to better blend into the night. Even the  
horses were black. The night was on their side as well, for no moon shone as the clouds hid it  
from view. It was a dark night indeed.

  
“A torch will wave in the open gate when the defences have been broken through,” replied Petyr  
stroking his beard. Sansa sniffed. For someone who hated the cold, Petyr looked much too smug.  
While she was bundled in furs and wrapped a cloak around her neck and head so her ears would  
not freeze, Petyr had his hood down.

  
“And ten men are supposed to slay all the guards on the watch?” She was doubtful. The plan  
wold fail, and then they would have a siege that could last days.

  
Petyr chuckled. “You would be surprised how much more can be accomplished by stealth instead  
of brute force. Fewer men need to die. Less blood needs to be spilled.” He paused in thought, then  
gave her a side glance. “Have I ever told you of the Faceless Men?”

  
She shook her head. He continued. “The truest harbingers of Death. They are a guild originating  
from Old Valyria. Former slaves who learned the art of taking the faces of dead men, and wearing  
them as masks. They are the most skilled assassins in the known world, and very expensive. A  
Faceless Man can kill anyone and most skillfully, making it look like an accident. A man might  
find himself sitting in his chambers one day, laughing with his family. Only his enemy has other  
plans for him, so one day he trips and falls down his stairs. Or chokes on rabbit pie. Or dies  
peacefully in his sleep. No one knows the real truth of his death. No one to take the blame.”  
“And I suppose they are the most knowledgeable about stealth.” Sansa looked out into the  
distance, focusing her attention on the gate.

  
“The very best there is. Even if someone can identify them, all they do is pull of the face. And  
suddenly, they’re a new person.” He stroked his beard thoughtfully. A few lights from the  
battlements had one out, one by one. Sansa felt her heart in her mouth. Would they make it?  
Suddenly, a light waved in the opened gate. Sansa breathed a sigh of relief.

  
“And so it begins.” Sansa and Petyr watched as the army moved in a battle formation. Torrhen’s  
Square held an estimated 1200-1700 men and Sansa knew the army they brought was large. This  
could easily work to their advantage.

  
They were marching towards the gate. Sansa used the opportunity to tell Petyr about Lord  
Redfort. “Did you know Lord Redfort believes it would be foolish to send all these men home  
after we retake Winterfell?”

  
“I’m sure the men would love to go home to their families.” Petyr looked at her questioningly.

  
“He seems to think it would be wasteful as we stand here for vengeance and justice, when the  
entire Seven Kingdoms is not at peace.” She twirled a piece of her hair around her gloved finger.  
entire Seven Kingdoms is not at peace.” She twirled a piece of her hair around her gloved finger.  
Petyr licked his lips, and Sansa smiled coyly. He looked at her darkly, then turned his gaze back to  
the scene below them. “Then he is not as blind as the rest of the Lords of the Vale.”

  
“A useful ally, wouldn’t you say my lord?” Petyr did not answer. The army had almost  
approached the castle gates. There was a shout, then Sansa watched in horror as hot oil was  
poured from above the gate and landed on a hundred screaming men below. Men were screaming  
and to add to their torture, a dozen torches were thrown. The front gate was in flames, although it  
was not the stone that burned, but the bodies of men.

  
Sansa covered her mouth in horror and stifled a sob. Thousands will die for you. But, she had  
never witnessed so many men die in agony before. Petyr groaned in disgust. “I hope Corbray has  
a new plan up his sleeve. It’ll be impossible to enter that gate now.” There was a shout, as order  
was desperately trying to be established.

  
But, to their surprise hundreds of Ironborn emerged from a gate to the West and East of the castle  
and attacked the very surprised army. Cries of pain and agony filled the night as metal clashed  
with metal. Red was being splashed all over the freshly fallen snow. Lothor Brune stepped  
forward. “My lady, come away.”

  
“No,” sounded Petyr. “She needs to see this.”

  
From the lack of empathy for the scene of carnage below in Petyr’s voice, Sansa tried to steady  
herself. They had seven thousand men. They easily outnumbered the Ironborn. And they were  
from the North. Or trained in mountains to battle in ice and snow. The Iron Islands was warmer  
than the North. The cold would tire them out. Wouldn’t it?

  
But, from the scene below it appeared the Iron Islanders were having an easy go at her soldiers.  
There was one man in particular, a bulky mass with a giant axe and long braided white hair who  
stood out. He sliced through the organized formation like pie. “They need to spread out. The  
formation won’t help them,” sounded Petyr. Sansa nodded. When attacked from two sides, they  
were surrounded. They had put too much faith in attacking the gate from one side. The castle had  
four side and four gates. Perhaps, it would have been better to create an alternative plan in case the  
stealth plan failed. Seven thousand divided among four sides sounded far more appealing. Hadn’t  
one of the Northern lords suggested it? Sansa had been too engrossed in Petyr and his schemes to  
pay them any heed. A regret. A mistake she could not afford to make again.

  
The constant clash of metal and cries of men filled the air. Sansa was beginning to feel ill, and was  
about to assent to Lothor Brune’s request that she leave the scene, when a horn sounded. She  
moved her horse closer to the scene, and to her surprise a second army was approaching from both  
sides of the castle. Petyr groaned. Had they underestimated the number of Ironborn in the castle?  
The battle was surely lost. Petyr began to move. “Turn the horses around, we’re leaving.” But,  
Sansa looked more closely at the army. They rode horses and the clanking of their armour was not  
in the style of the Ironborn. This army was far too large to fit into the castle. She looked for a  
banner to give her an indication of where their loyalties were, and spotted one. The Bear of Bear  
Island. House Mormont.

  
“Petyr, wait…” He huffed in frustration and moved to grab the reins of her horse, but followed the  
direction of where she was pointing. Curious, he pulled his horse beside her. “House Mormont.”  
Red with a wolverine? No, a giant. “And House Umber.” She looked at Petyr excitedly. “Mors  
Crowfood must have left Stannis.”

  
Sansa watched as the second army enclosed the outer ranks of her trapped army. It was brilliant.  
The Ironborn were sandwiched between two opposing forces. It was quick work from there.  
Sansa watched as Dagmer Cleftjaw had his throat sliced open.

  


***

  
As Sansa and Petyr descended from the hill, the smell of blood and burned flesh filled the air. As  
Sansa approached the victors, a few of the riders came up to meet her. She dismounted from her  
horse and walked the rest of the way. She walked up to a tall form in chainmail who carried a  
spiked mace. The warrior removed the helmet. To Sansa’s surprise it was the weathered old face  
of a woman. Of course, it was a house of women now. She curtsied in respect. “Lady Mormont. I  
am indebted to you. Your swift arrival saved me thousands of men.”

  
The woman laughed out loud and dismounted from her charger. She clasped Sansa and held her  
close to her chest. “Maege will do. Though it should be I who curtsies to you, Queen of Winter.”  
She unhanded Sansa and held her at a distance, inspecting her. “You have the Tully look, my  
lady. The same as your brother. Though far prettier by the looks of it.” Her laughter echoed  
through the night. Sansa could not help but smile at the woman’s humour. Two other knights,  
who Sansa realized were not knights but female warriors stepped down from their horses and  
kneeled. Sansa smiled in their direction. Maege led her to them. “My daughters, Alysane and  
Lyra. We left Stannis as soon as we heard that you had returned.”

  
She moved in the direction of a huge man, with a piece of clouded glass covering one eye. He  
wore the white cloak of a snow bear, with its head serving as a hood. It was stained with blood.  
“And this old oaf is Mors Crowfood.” Sansa curtsied to him as well and thanked him. He kissed  
her hand sloppily. She remembered the stories Old Nan had told her and Bran. While sleeping by  
the side of a road, a crow had taken Mors for dead and so it pecked out his eye. He had grabbed  
the raven at its feet and bit its head off, earning him the nickname Crowfood.

  
Sansa turned to Petyr, who had dismounted and was standing at a distance behind her. She  
beckoned him forward. “Lady Maege, Lord Mors, may I present the Hand of the Queen and Lord  
Paramount of the Trident, Lord Petyr Baelish.” Petyr moved to stand beside Sansa and nodded in  
their direction.

  
Mors Crowfood scoffed. “Baelish? Lord Littlefinger? Even this far North, the stories of you  
licking Queen Cersei’s boots do not go unsounded.”

  
Before Sansa could reply, Petyr intercepted. “I assure you, my lord that the taste was most  
unpleasant. I much rather prefer Queen Sansa’s.” He raised his eyebrows, and Mors Crowfood  
boomed out his laughter.

  
Sansa smiled. “Lord Baelish is a true friend. He has been an integral part to our victories.”  
“And hopefully not an integral part of this soon-to-be defeat,” said Maege.

  
Sansa did not answer her. Petyr was not a military man, she would have to listen more attentively  
to what the Northerners had to say about her homeland. “Thank you for coming to our aid. I  
assure you, my army is much than what you have seen, but camped some distance away.” She  
motioned towards the castle. “Let us get to know one another better where it is warmer.” As they  
walked, Sansa watched where she stepped. She whispered to Petyr to order all the bodies burned.  
Old Nan had been right about Mors Crowfood and his eye, how many other things could she be  
right about?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there ya have it! I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoyed it  
> too :) Yes the bae can be wrong, he can strategize but chaos is chance, and sometimes  
> chance wont work in your favour. luckily this time, some allies came in ;)  
> Next chapter is cray cray


	19. For the Old Gods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING: This chapter contains graphic descriptions of violence!  
> The Tallharts were freed, and although starved and thin, they all survived. Lady  
> Eddara was reinstalled as Lady of Torrhen Square and given a detachment of the  
> army to defend the castle. As they rested and gathered themselves to formulate a plan  
> to attack Winterfell, news came from Castle Cerwyn. Stannis Baratheon attacked  
> Winterfell and was defeated. The Baratheon line was dead. He had sacrificed his  
> daughter Shireen to appease his Fire God and his wife committed suicide. His red  
> priestess fled. This was the opportune moment to attack, as Stannis’ army was  
> defeated and the Boltons were still licking their wounds.  
> At a camp set up on the road along the wolfswood from Torrhen Square to  
> Winterfell. Castle Cerwyn ready to attack and in place at command. White Harbour  
> sending warships down the White Knife.

He heard arguing. It was whispered, as if they did not want anyone to hear, but he always heard.

  
He moved closer to the source of the voices. His footfalls were quiet, barely crunching in the  
snow. It was an art he had mastered long along. The noise appeared to be coming from a tent that  
belonged to a Northern Lord, the Umbers or Mormonts. The whispers were hoarse and rough. He  
crept closer, taking care to remain in the shadows. A cold wind swept in, causing the torchlights to  
flicker. The wind had blown the flap of the tent slightly ajar, and he could make out the figures  
inside.

  
They were standing, five of them. They appeared to be facing someone seated deeper inside the  
tent, hidden from view. From the voices, he could make out Mors Umber and Maege Mormont,  
and perhaps one of her daughters. He crept closer.

  
“Our way is the old way. There is much you do not understand. There is much that is hidden,”  
said a hoarse female voice.

  
“If you do not honour them, they will not help us.”

  
“The old gods are not cruel, this is how it has always been for centuries. Since the First Men.”

  
The lights flickered again. He pulled his cloak tighter around himself. She stepped into view,  
auburn hair glowing even in the dim light. She began to pace the tent, and the people gathered  
looked after her imploringly.

  
“They will desert me. Do you know what they call us in the South? Barbarians. Half my army  
will be gone,” she said. Her voice was etched with fear.

  
“To go forward, you must go back. Go back to your roots.”

  
“Why are you so sure?”

  
“He is brutal, but the old gods only see red. It is the life force that drives them, no matter who  
provides it,” said the male voice.

  
“And it has to be me?” She did not sound happy.

  
“They will not accept it from us.”

  
“I have to think. I have to talk to him.”

  
“He is not one of us. He will not understand.”

  
Suddenly, she strode out of the tent, white cloak trailing behind her in the snow. He began to  
follow her at a slight distance. After she passed by a dozen tents or so, she stopped and turned to  
face him. Her face was cold. Emotionless. As if all the life blood had been drained from her.  
“How long have you been there?”

  
Petyr Baelish stepped out from the shadows. “Long enough.”

  
She looked at him, staring hard at his facial expression as if scrutinizing his every feature. But  
Petyr Baelish wore no smirk. “How much did you hear?” Sansa said.

  
“Don’t do it.” He stepped closer, reaching for her despite the multitude of tents around them.  
She huffed and stepped back, away from him. She looked as if she wanted to pace outside, but  
decided against it. “They are convinced we will lose this war if I do not.”

  
“Your father…he would not have done it. He did not do it. It was outlawed centuries ago.”

  
“I am Queen, I make the laws.”

  
“This is not like you.”

  
“I lost myself a long time ago. I am not the sweet summer child you once knew. Winter has come.  
I will do what is necessary.”

  
“They have tricked you. Drawn you into their illusions.”

  
“I went to them. I had a dream.”

  
He chuckled in disbelief. “A dream…?”

  
“A dream that a white dire wolf had its belly ripped open and frozen in the snow. Only to be  
reborn by fire. And…and a tall boy with a cruel face wearing the bloodied skin of a dire wolf.”

  
“Dreams mean nothing.” She could not fall back into this naivety of stories and songs. Could she?  
She approached him slowly. Her eyes looked strange. Unseeing, yet open. “Winter has come, my  
lord. The old gods shall have their due. Stannis has fallen.”

  
A flush of fury flashed across his usually composed face. “Stannis had fewer men than we do. He  
used the wrong approach.”

  
“Be as that may, he lost. And, Roose Bolton is playing a dangerous game. He has taken the blood  
of a king.”

  
“I don’t understand.” What was she talking about? Her words were cryptic. He could not grasp  
the full meaning of what she was saying.

  
She smirked at him, then turned away abruptly. He grabbed onto her hand, pulling her back. She  
did not say a word, only stared at him. It was unnatural, and so unlike her. But, something had  
changed.

  
Just then, a child stepped out of the shadows. How long had she been there? She stood a short  
distance away from Sansa, and kept her eyes on Petyr. Her gaze was unwavering and cold. He  
never liked the child. She was eerie, but tonight she looked like a ghost.

  
“Only life can pay for life.” Her voice was soft, but cut like ice. Petyr let go of Sansa’s hand as if  
it were a hot coal. She stepped away from him, and hurriedly moved towards the child, taking  
hold of her hand and leading them both away from him.

  
Petyr Baelish was left alone in the cold.

  


***

  
They had gathered in the wolfswood. Hundreds of weirwood trees were all around them,  
surrounding the single giant heart tree. It was night, and snow was lightly falling, blanketing  
everything around them in white. It was fitting, for she too wore the simplest white dress she  
owned. The wind gusted and hit her hard, for Sansa Stark wore no cloak or furs. She was exposed  
to the night.

  
All around her were gathered soldiers. Archers, swordsmen, knights and lords. They were silent  
and unmoving. No clinking of chain mail or armour as they stood still. She looked at Maege  
Mormont, and the woman gave her a quick nod. Sansa inhaled deeply, allowing the cold winter  
air to fill her lungs. Winter had come. She knew this, her father had been warning them of it for  
years. This is my home. And these are my people, and I must honour them.

  
She had never paid attention to the North. Although she loved the godswood as a child, she had  
been closer to her mother and Septa Mordane than her father’s gods. She had loved the elaborate  
rituals and customs. The beautifully painted septs and statues. She often believed she embodied  
the Maiden’s innocence. Had she not prayed to the Warrior and Crone, the Mother to help her and  
ease her trials? Had they not answered her prayers by bringing Petyr into her life? The old gods  
could not save her from King’s Landing. They held no power in the South, the many heart and  
weirwood trees destroyed by Targaryens years ago. But had the wind not rustled through the trees  
when she prayed to the old gods on the journey to Gulltown? They were alive.

  
There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Sansa had been shocked and frightened when Maege  
Mormont had told her about the blood sacrifices. The old gods and the Children of the Forest  
appeased those who gave the life force to them. Upon death, a person’s blood would flow into the  
earth and sustain more life and on and on it went. How long had the Starks been in power? Eight  
thousand years. The Night’s King, if the stories were to be believed was on all likelihood a Stark.  
She knew it was not honour and loyalty that kept the Starks in power. The Boltons. The Umbers.  
They were once Kings too, until the Starks defeated them. And Maege had told her about the  
wargs, the skin changers. Alysane Mormont claimed her children were skinchangers, as their  
father had been a bear. He could travel into the minds of bears. She had the wolf blood. Had Lady  
been alive would she be able to enter her body? She wondered if her brothers could, but Maege  
had said Robb did not appear to have the talent. But, Robb and her were alike. Connected to the  
South and the North. The others—Arya, Bran, Rickon and Jon—were far more Nothern, did they  
have the ability?

  
Roose Bolton had taken Stannis Baratheon’s entrails and strung them up around the heart tree in  
Winterfell. He was trying to appease the old gods. He was interested in magic. He wanted the  
North. The Boltons were cruel. While the Starks and Umbers had stopped the blood sacrifices,  
had the Boltons still continued the ancient custom owing to their rise in power? Or was it just the  
blind faith and honour her father had that lead to the near destruction of her house?  
Sansa heard the cow bone rattles shaking. They were coming closer. She looked at Petyr. He  
stood across from her, but he did not look back at her. Petyr had avoided her since their encounter  
last night, and was not present when she invited the Lords of the Vale to the godswood. He is  
angry with me. Petyr was the rational, calculating man. He did not believe in the gods. This was  
all a farce to him. Childish superstition. He must think I am a foolish child again, being drawn into  
stories and folk tales. Does he not know what we plan to do?

  
She heard the moo from the frightened cow as it approached. It was brought before the heart tree.  
It was as white as the snow around them, and runes had been painted on its belly. Red. The colour  
of blood. The wind gusted and blew her hair outwards. She looked down. Red and white. Just  
like me. She stepped forward. Two northmen held the cow in place. Four large bowls had been  
placed in the snow near the cow. Lord Umber and Lady Mormont stood on either side of the cow.  
Gentle mother, font of Mercy. Who was she now? Save our sons from war, we pray. Little dove.  
Little bird. Lady Lannister. Alayne Stone. No, she was a daughter of the North. A Stark. The  
Queen of Winter. Stay the swords and stay the arrows. Our way is the old way. The old gods  
must be appeased. I must prove to them that I am of the North. Let them know a better way. Teach  
us all a kinder way.

  
“Here me now!” she called out into night. “I am Sansa of the House Stark, Queen of the North  
and the Winter, and of the blood of the First Men. Of the blood of Winterfell.” They were looking  
at her, a hundred staring eyes. “I come before the old gods tonight so that they might accept my  
offering.”

  
She nodded, and one of the northmen moved to slit the cow’s neck open. Blood poured out onto  
the ground, filling the four bowls. She cringed inside, but kept her face stoic. Lady Maege step  
forward and picked up a bowl. She dipped two fingers inside the warm blood, and smeared the  
blood on one side of Sansa’s cheek in two horizontal lines. The smell of rust and iron filled the air.  
Lord Umber stepped forward and picked up the other bowl. He dipped two fingers inside the  
bowl and lined the other side of Sansa’s cheek. “Queen of the Winter,” he whispered. She  
shuddered.

  
They walked towards the heart tree and splashed the blood on the face. Sansa watched as the  
blood disappeared inside the deep hole where the mouth was. Was on old god on the other side  
drinking the life force? The snow crunched behind her, and the northmen had come up with the  
cow’s entrails. She shuddered and felt bile rise in her throat, but took one end of the intestines and  
began her slow walk around the tree, wrapping it around. She looked at the crowd gathered. Petyr  
looked annoyed. The Lords of the Vale looked surprised. A gentle lady dripping with blood. I  
have shown them another side to me. She knew they were not disgusted. It was only a cow, and  
cows were sacrificed all the time. But, this proved how different the North was to them. How  
entrenched in the old ways they really were, far more than Sansa had ever realized. She looked at  
the faces of her countrymen. Pride swelled in their eyes. Love was a surer way to people’s hearts,  
and by doing this rite, Sansa had made them fall in love with her. It took her two full circles before  
she was done.

  
She stood before the heart tree. Behind her was a scene of blood and gore. But, of sacrifice and  
old customs. The old way. She looked at Yara. The girl was of the North. Her face was set on the  
blood that covered the heart tree, a ghost of a smile at her lips. Only life can pay for life, she had  
said. The ground was covered in blood. The tree was covered in blood. “Old gods, hear my  
prayer.” But no breeze came. It would not. Not until later, she knew.

  


***

  
It was late into the night, but he had known the cow was not the real sacrifice. He watched at a  
distance hidden behind a tree, as the small group of Northerners led a man into the godswood. The  
Bolton cousin, captured at Barrowton.

  
Sansa still had the blood of the cow on her face, and was still dressed in her simple white gown  
with no cloak. She looked other-wordly. Unreal. Like a spirit herself. He saw as Lady Maege and  
Lord Mors held the man down, and a knife was pressed into Sansa’s hand. He saw as Sansa  
hesitated, then slit the man’s throat. His blood stained the earth. He watched as Sansa collected the  
blood in a bowl and dipped her fingers inside. He watched as she drew a thin line down the face  
of Lord Mors and Lady Maege, and several other knights gathered. He watched as she poured the  
bowl of blood at her feet onto the cold ground, staining the hem of her dress. He watched as she  
poured blood around the heart tree in a circle and then splashed it onto the face. And Petyr Baelish  
watched as the wind picked up, blowing out all the torchlights. The old gods had answered her  
prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so... it's mentioned multiple times in the books that the Northerners are a  
> strange people and they used to do human sacrifices to the old gods, though this  
> stopped some 200 years before the current events. Bran sees it in his visions and is  
> even able to taste the blood. In ADWD, Davos overhears a rumour of potential  
> sacrifices. The Umbers keep some of the old traditions such as the first night, so I  
> wanted to incorporate the old customs in my story. Is it a bit out of Sansa's character  
> to agree to this...yes, but she has the wolf blood and she still needs to prove to her  
> Lords that she can lead them.  
> My inspiration for this scene came from Vikings and Lagertha's cattle sacrifice:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ykh5RuBLJTw  
> Also, from Vikings, this music helped me write the scene, it's very raw and Norse  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cz3O0JftA5w  
> YEAH SO LET ME KNOW WHAT YOU GUYS THINK AND dont shoot me  
> hehe


	20. Thundering Hooves

She had gone back to the heart tree. The blood stained dress was burnt in the flames. The blood  
had washed off easily. But, Sansa could not push back the memory of the man she killed. He was  
a Bolton, her enemy. He would have killed her if given the chance. It was not his death she  
mourned for. She had never realized she had the capacity to kill. To watch as a man’s life energy  
drained from him, and his body slumped into the earth. She never realized she would have the  
blood of another human dripping from her body. She could not imagine she could ever do the  
things she did last night. But, she did.

  
The morning had done wonders to the heart tree. Even though the ground was frozen and hard, it  
appeared as though the earth had soaked in the blood of the slain cow and man. The entrails still  
hung from the tree, but the blood had been all but washed clean. Petyr would say it is the snow.  
Water cleanses. But, Sansa knew it was the old gods. The wind had blown fiercely when she  
finished, blowing out all the torchlights. They were real. Sansa realized that to blindly love was  
not real, but perhaps there was more magic in this world than most people gave credit to.  
Sansa shuddered. The air around the tree felt different. Charged. She reached out and touched the  
face. Never before had she seen the old gods in such a light. They were not evil, she realized but  
did what was necessary. The North was filled with magic. The world of the old was built upon  
blood magic. She had heard stories of the Wall and how thousands had been sacrificed in order to  
create spells that would protect them from the Others. And had she not been ordering bodies to be  
burned since the campaign started? She sighed. The face stared back at her, twisted and ugly. Was  
a god staring back at her? She peered at it more closely. All at once, as if by a trick of light, the  
face changed and a young boy was staring back at her. She jumped back, and tripped on a root,  
falling backwards. She landed on ground on her back, but her fall was blanketed by the fresh  
snow.

  
“Are you alright, milady?”

  
Sansa turned, and Yara was at her side. She nodded her head. “I am fine, Yara. What are you  
doing here?”

  
Yara knelt down beside her. “I followed you here. I wanted to make sure you were alright.” She  
sighed. “You were very brave, milady. You were scared, but you still did it.”

  
Sansa smiled. “Truthfully, I wanted to vomit the entire time.” She looked at the girl. Her tangled  
blonde hair. Hard green eyes. She might have been beautiful once, but her face was changed by  
war. “Thank you for being there for me. I-I could not have done it alone.” It was the small blonde  
girl who pressed the knife into Sansa’s hand. She had told Sansa not to be afraid. The world was  
full of cruelty, and his life was not taken unjustly. The Bolton cousin had hurt many men, and his  
death was far cleaner and purer than he deserved.

  
Yara shrugged. “It was your first man. You have not seen many die. It gets better.”

  
Sansa stared at the girl wide-eyed. “And you would know because you have killed before?”

  
The girl looked at the tree, entrails all around. “I did what I had to survive.”

  
“Who was your first man?” Yara spoke of life and death as if either was of no consequence. How  
many had this small child killed?

  
Yara did not answer. She reached into her pocket, but changed her mind about something and  
looked back at Sansa. “What did you see in the tree?”

  
Sansa paused, trying to gather her thoughts. “Nothing. I tripped, that is all.” The girl looked at her  
hard, like she did not believe her. Sansa had thought about the old gods far more in the past few  
weeks than she had ever thought about them in her life. She was in the North, and was becoming  
more connected to it than she had ever been. Could she warg? She did not have a direwolf to find  
out. Lady Maege had told her far more than Old Nan had ever told her. Or perhaps her stories  
seemed more real. This woman was a fierce warrior. She would not fill her head with childish  
fantasies unless they held some truth. But, it did not feel like a fantasy. It felt real and it felt like  
peace. After being knocked back into the snow, Sansa felt a warmth in her chest.

  
She stood up, testing to see if anything hurt when she moved. Her back felt a bit sore, but  
otherwise she was fine. She extended her hand to Yara, and pulled the girl up. They began to  
walk back to the camp, for they would be moving again and not stopping until they reached  
Winterfell. There was an awkward silence between them for they had both not answered each  
other’s questions and Sansa sensed the small child had much to hide. Was she a spy?

  
“Milady, I have lied to you,” said Yara suddenly.

  
“What are you talking about?”

  
“I-I know who you are, because I grew up in the winter town near Winterfell. My father owned  
chickens, and I often helped him take the eggs to Winterfell in the winter when we came to seek  
shelter.” Sansa stopped mid-step. “I told you I know how to fight and can shoot an arrow. But, I  
want to be involved in the battle.”

  
“How can I let you?” She reached out and touched the girl’s cheek. “You are only a child.”

  
Yara jumped back. “No I’m not! I shot down three men with arrows in Barrowtown and many  
more in Torrhen’s square. Milady, I know the other passages in Winterfell, let me go.”

  
“So you can die? How can I let a child die? I won’t hear of it.” She gave the girl a small push.

  
“Go! Finish packing!” Yara stared at Sansa, but Sansa met her gaze and held it. Yara stalked off  
in the opposite direction. So, that is why the girl is not afraid of me and seems to know small  
details about me? She is not a spy. She has seen me before in Winterfell. Sansa was upset that she  
had joined the battle without her permission, since she had ordered her to stay at the camp, but she  
had snuck out all the same. She would have to deal with that later.

  
“Lady Sansa! Lord Baelish is looking for you. The horses are ready.” Sansa pulled her cloak over  
her head and moved to find Petyr. The men were getting into formation. Satchels were tied to  
horses, for the snow was too deep to move the carts through. Many of the lords were already atop  
their horses waiting. Petyr stepped towards her. He raised his eyebrows at her. “Are you ready,  
my lady?”

  
Sansa searched his features, looking for any signs of anger or hidden frustration. He leaned in and  
whispered, “Thousands will die for you. It is good to know you have the stomach to kill a man  
again should the time come.” She stepped back aghast. He had seen. Her mouth formed a shocked  
O shape, but she quickly changed it to a relaxed expression when she caught a few of the Lords  
looking at her.

  
Petyr winked at her. “I may not believe in superstitions, but whether or not the old gods heard  
your prayer, you have certainly strengthened the morale of your soldiers.” He nodded in the  
direction of the formations. “If anyone doubted a sixteen year old girl could lead an army, that  
display should quell their fears.” She nodded. He was adaptive. Every action served a purpose,  
both obvious and hidden. She glanced at the Lords of the Vale. He met her gaze. “They did not  
see your secret. A cow is of no consequence when they are drenched with the blood of men.”

  
Sansa nodded again. All her secrets were safe with him. But soon enough, the Lords of the Vale  
would find out about her blood sacrifice. And would this be the last one? She saw images of  
Roose and Ramsay Boltons entrails wrapped around her father’s heart tree. She shuddered, but  
Petyr took her as being cold. He gently took her arm and helped her mount her charger, a smug  
smile on his lips.

  
Sansa veered her horse around. They were ready. They would be within attack range from  
Winterfell within two days, and they would scarcely stop for rest. The snows were falling heavy,  
but these men were Northerners and thirsty for revenge. And no doubt more blood. She clucked  
her tongue twice, and moved her horse into a gallop. The thundering sound of a thousand horses  
followed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE CHAPTER UNTIL THE BATTLE OF WINTERFELL! Those  
> chapters are so exciting and full of emotion. I'm writing more then I'm posting so i  
> need to fix that ;)


	21. The Great Lord of Westeros

“You’ve been quiet, Sansa.” Petyr moved his horse closer to her, so they rode side by side.  
“Have I?” The landscape grew increasingly familiar. They were close, she could feel it. The closer  
they got to their destination, the more tense Sansa became. She dreaded seeing the banner of the  
flayed man flying over the castle battlements. It should have been Robb or Bran coming out to  
greet me. She should not have to attack her ancestral home. She could not bear to see even a small  
part of the castle crumble.

  
“It’s troubling you.” Petyr’s gaze broke straight through her soul.

  
She turned her face, hiding her expression from him. Her lip trembled. “I cannot bear to see the  
banner of the flayed man.” Or the charred walls of my home. She pulled her hood more tightly  
about her face, and turned to look at him.

  
He raised his eyebrows slightly. “You’re afraid,” he whispered.

  
She let out a small cough. “Is that so surprising?”

  
“No.” His eyes were full of compassion. Compassion that very few people would ever see.  
“You’re almost there, and you’re afraid of what might happen. That you might reach your home  
and see it burned and desecrated. Or they might be nothing left to come home to.”

  
“It almost doesn’t feel real. Like this is all a dream. If I reach out and touch you, you will  
disappear and I’ll find myself back at the Eyrie reading to Sweetrobin.” She smiled sadly. They  
were dressed identically in matching travelling coats of black. For a second, Sansa wished she  
could turn the horses back around, just the two of them, and take a merchant ship to Braavos to  
live out the rest of their days together. She loved him and he loved her, isn’t that all that mattered?  
She longed for real love her whole life and she had finally gotten it, wasn’t it enough? But, to  
disappear now would be running away. And she would not run. You’ve been a bystander to  
tragedy your whole life. Stop running. Avenge them.

  
“If you want to build a better home, first you have to demolish the old one.” She remembered. The  
words he spoke to her in the garden of the Eyrie. Kissing a snow maiden.

  
“I did not take you meant it literally.”

  
He chuckled softy. “No. I did not then, and I do not now.” He stroked his beard lightly with his  
gloved hand. All around them were personal guards. They were closer to the back of the march.  
The lords of the Vale and the North had ridden in the front. By the time Sansa and Petyr reached  
the small hill that overlooked Winterfell, the battle formation would already be in place to attack.  
She glanced at him, waiting for him to continue. Even now, he was still her mentor. She had much  
to learn from this older, more experienced man. “Some people are fortunate enough to be born  
into the right family. Targaryen. Baratheon. Bolton. Lannister. Stark. The world we live in is built  
for strong noble families. The rest of us live in the shadows.” He looked directly at her then.

  
“Strange, isn’t it? Most of these families so old and noble are either extinct or soon will be. The  
world is much changed from when you were born, sweetling.”

  
He was right. The ancient families had traced their lineage and power back for thousands of years.  
House Stark was the stuff of legend in the North and throughout Westeros. Yet in the span of a  
few years, they had fallen so greatly. The Baratheons were gone too. Stannis had burned his  
daughter in a sacrifice to his fire god, his wife died soon after and his head was put on a spike by  
the Boltons. The world had changed so much since she left for King’s Landing. “The times have  
changed, my lord.”

  
“They have. The world we once lived in was built for your stock. And what of the world we’ve  
created? Chaos reigns here. Who can tell what the next year will bring? What chances will be  
created? More and more nobles die, and who will step in to fill their spaces?”

  
Sansa leaned in closer. She lowered her voice. “What are you suggesting, Petyr?”

  
He had a gleam in his eyes. “Others have to find their own way.” She sat back confused.

  
“Someone like me could never hope to bed the first daughter of the great and ancient House Stark.  
Even when she had fallen into disgrace, Sansa Stark was too good for a minor lord, never mind  
his influence and power. I learned you cannot play by their rules, so I created my own.”

  
She nodded. “The only game. The game of thrones.”

  
“Precisely, sweetling. Now, you and I make the rules. And the next few months, will determine  
what kind of world we create. Westeros has been unchanged in three hundred years. Who knows  
what the future will bring?”

  
Sansa brushed back hair that had fallen out of her hood. The past is the past, the future is all that’s  
worth discussing. Her lover was an opportunist. A man who took advantage of every  
circumstance that presented itself. He worked in the shadows, creating the downfall of others  
behind their back, with a perfect charming smile on his face. Littlefinger could talk you out of  
your smallclothes. An amicable man. But, he had moved out of the shadows and into the open. He  
was no longer the hidden mastermind. The Lannisters made him one of the great lords of  
Westeros, yet here he was with her undermining them in the North.

  
A rider came charging towards them. They halted. The man was breathless. “Lady Stark, in a few  
hundred feet you will reach the hill. The formation is in place.” Sansa glanced at Petyr. He pulled  
at his horse’s reigns and the party moved into a gallop.

  
It stood before them. Sansa inhaled sharply. The granite walls that held together her family home  
still stood tall and strong. A fortress. A little broken perhaps, but then so am I. The walls were  
damaged, she could see the cracks and breaks in some parts even from the distance she stood. The  
Broken Tower Bran had fallen from still existed. The Great Keep still stood tall. She smiled  
slightly in relief. It was almost whole. The stories of the broken stone and ash had been  
exaggerated. Just slightly below her, ten thousand men stood between the hill and her castle.  
Behind her in the camp they had established, were ten thousand more reinforcements. The snow  
was deep in many places, but it had stopped falling days ago.

  
Mors Umber rode towards them. “Lady Stark, a rider was sent with a message from Roose  
Bolton. He would like to speak with you.”

  
Sansa laughed. “Does he take me for a naïve child? If Roose Bolton wishes to speak with me, he  
shall come out of the castle and meet me on this very hill alone and unguarded.”

  
Petyr smirked. “There will be no meeting. The time for talking has passed long ago. A coward’s  
words and pleas for mercy. Bring the rider forth.”

  
A tall, fair-haired man was brought forward. He had a look of cruelty in his eyes. “And who are  
you?” said Sansa, squaring her shoulders.

  
“Damon. Though I do not answer to you.” He grunted in malice.

  
Sansa smirked. “You will answer to me or I will send your head back to your master.”

  
“My master will flay you alive, you fucking cunt!”

  
Sansa’s smirk grew more pronounced. The man was held by two soldiers. She leaned down and  
looked him square in the eyes. “Your master cannot even hope to live to see the end of this day.”  
She got back up and turned, moving past Petyr to her horse. Eyes followed her. Suddenly, Petyr  
unsheathed the dagger he kept on his belt and leaned into the man’s ear. “You do not speak to a  
Queen like that, peasant.” He drove the dagger into the man’s shoulder. He screamed in pain, and  
blood poured out. Sansa yelped. The other lords were speechless.

  
“Strap him to a horse and send him back. Roose Bolton shall find no mercy from us.” Petyr’s  
voice was cold. As cold and unforgiving as the North itself. The soldiers dragged the man away,  
as he screamed curses and insults upon Sansa. Sansa stood slightly away from Petyr, and looked  
at his back, which was turned away from her. He won’t let anyone harm me, she realized.

  
Lord Harry and Lord Royce approached. Lord Royce was staring at Petyr oddly, clearly he had  
seen the exchange. He has gained their respect. Petyr was not a strong man. He was not a soldier  
or someone who easily wielded a sword. He was not the conventional man. Although he had  
killed hundreds, his hands were clean. Sansa put on a wide smile, as if nothing of consequence  
had just happened. “Lord Royce. I see you have joined us at last. You have all my gratitude for  
destroying the Dreadfort.”

  
“My lady.” He bowed. “The troops are in place and ready to attack.”

  
Petyr spoke. “From what I have heard, Ramsay Bolton likes to lead attacks himself. He believes  
himself invincible. No matter, we have selected our best warriors to defeat him and his so-called  
Bastard’s Boys.”

  
“The attack begins when the Boltons make the first move.” They stood in silence, waiting. The air  
was still. No ravens or birds flew overhead. Beyond the castle walls, stood her home. The taste of  
innocence. The taste of dreams.

  
And arrow flew from across the battlements of Winterfell. It had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, I put a little insight into how Petyr sees the world and his plans for Westeros  
> without looking into Petyr's thoughts. I hope you enjoyed it! THE NEXT  
> CHAPTER IS BATTLE FOR WINTERFELL! WITH MEEEEE  
> They're also going to be super long and full of tear-jerking moments so get ready


	22. The Battle for Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Graphic depictions of violence (physical and sexual) and gore

It was chaos. Though not the kind Petyr thrived on. As Sansa watched on from the hill, it was  
hard to tell who the Bolton men were and who her men were. They had surrounded the castle on  
all sides. It was the best strategy and one they had learned to not ignore from the battle for  
Torrhen’s Square. But, Winterfell was far larger and although it too had four gates, the army was  
not evenly spread out. This was not done without a purpose.

  
The Boltons were trapped. They had sat in Winterfell for weeks, and defeated Stannis. Stannis’  
had been less than two thousand, and they had been weak, frozen and starved. Her men were  
strong, full and filled with purpose. But, the Boltons were a cruel stock, and Sansa wondered what  
trick they would pull out of their sleeves. It still pained her to see any man fall, in a swirl of  
screams and blood. But, this was not the carnage at Torrhen’s Square. This was true warfare.  
Cavalry against cavalry. Foot soldiers against foot soldiers. Archers battling archers. There was an  
equal match. But, they had more men. It was only a matter of time before the Bolton men retreated  
into their castle. Then the second phase of their plan would begin. Draw them out, then surprise  
them. Winterfell may be broken and in enemies hands, but they did not know it as well as a Stark  
child did.

  
There was a gap in the wall, unseen from the outside and hidden behind vines. Wide enough for  
one person to pass through at a time, but that was enough. It led through the crypts, the last place  
any person would expect an army to emerge. Theon Greyjoy may have had grapples and hooks to  
scale the wall in the night, but even he would not have known of the small opening. This had been  
their secret. Hers and Bran’s and Arya’s. The only issue was, she could not remember where the  
opening was, only that it existed somewhere to the east of the castle. The knights knew they had  
to find it, and fast before the archers arrows descended on them, or rocks or hot oil was poured.  
“Lady Sansa!” Lothor Brune ran up beside her. She turned in her saddle. Petyr huffed in  
annoyance. He stopped his horse in front of her. “I went back to your tent to find your fur muff as  
you said. But, the serving girl was not within. I asked around and some said they saw her running  
north towards the battle, with a sword in her hand.”

  
“What?!” Sansa could feel the heat rising in her face. Did the child have a death wish? She moved  
her horse into a gallop and reached the camp, Brune riding closely behind her. When she returned,  
she sent out a few men to find the girl, but Yara was nowhere to be found.

  
“My lady, she has entered the battle. She is lost,” said Brune. Sansa huffed in frustration. She had  
grown to be fond of the girl. She had reminded her of Arya with her willfulness and boyishness.  
Sansa shook her head, there was nothing to do but return to Petyr. She moved out of her tent, but  
a shout was raised. Soldiers rode into camp, carrying a large mass on a cart. She frowned and  
moved towards the cart. The sight she saw caused Sansa to cry out in surprise and horror.

  
Lord Redfort was lying face up in the cart, breathing heavily. Despite his heavy armour, a deep  
gash laid across his chest, and blood was pouring out. She clasped his hand. He looked at her, fear  
in his eyes. She felt a mixture of anger and tears at the back of her throat. “My dear friend…”  
  
His voice came out in ragged breaths. “My Queen…I have fought for you…Let me die for you  
now…”

  
She shook her head and kissed his hand. She stood up and began shouting orders. “Get him to a  
Silent Sister! Stitch up the wound and burn it closed, to make sure it does not fester!” She  
regarded him with compassion and spoke gently. “You shall have to die for me another day, my  
lord. Your time has not come yet.” The cart moved and her friend pulled away from her.

  
Sansa returned to Petyr, who had not moved from his position on the hill. He smirked at her.  
“Look below! See the man who wears no armour on the all black horse? That’s Ramsay Bolton.”  
Sansa looked, and even from the distance she could see that this man was cruel and evil. His  
arrogance was apparent, but he was a skilled swordsmen, chopping through her infantry with  
ease. Like they were nothing more than fresh meat. She despised him. Had she been a man, she  
would have wanted to battle him herself. But, perhaps not. Some men did not need strength and  
valor to defeat their enemies. Some men watched in the distance as their enemies were defeated.  
Able to strike the final blow, while their enemy never saw it coming. Petyr was able to do that,  
and now she was too.

  
A horn sounded suddenly, and the Bolton men began to fall back. Her army rounded on them,  
driving them back into Winterfell. There were many bodies on the ground, and Sansa did not  
doubt that the few men they had within the castle were fewer still. The second phase of the plan  
would go into action, if they could find the hidden passage. She moved her horse closer, but Petyr  
clucked his tongue. “Do not move any closer. You do not want to be in range of their archers.”

  
Sansa looked at him in disbelief. “We are on a hill, Petyr. Arrows cannot reach this far.” He  
smiled at her mockingly, then pointed down. She looked over the hill, and not thirty feet away, a  
few arrows had struck. She moved back on her horse quickly. He chuckled softly. “A small  
chance that an archer’s range would be this far, but a chance nonetheless.”

  
The Bolton army was hidden in the castle. They waited for a sign that the men would be inside  
through the passage. But, they could not see, for the side of the castle Petyr and Sansa faced was  
north, not east. Only a hundred selected men would go through the passage, in order to maximize  
stealth and accuracy.

  
It did not take long. The infantry and cavalry surrounded the castle. But, soon the archers attention  
was not on the men surrounding them, but turned towards the inner parts of the castle. Sansa  
began to move her horse, and looked back at Petyr. “Shall we go?” He smiled at her conspiringly.

  


***

  
As Sansa Stark passed through the gates of her family home for the first time in years, a range of  
emotions hit her. Her family would not be there to greet her. No one she knew would be present.  
Except for broken souls.

  
Blood and debris littered the floor that had once been clean and whole. Triumphant cries filled the  
air and shouts of “Queen of the North” and “Lady of Winterfell” but did Sansa feel triumphant? I  
would trade a thousand tomorrows for just one yesterday. This was not a victory the way  
capturing Moat Cailin, Barrowton or Torrhen’s Square had been. It was not a victory the way  
convincing Harry and the other Lords of the Vale or finding Wyman Manderly with a host of  
Northern lords ready to swear fidelity to her had been. This was her home. Her sanctuary. The  
place of dreams. A place once filled with love and laughter. She saw ghosts as her horse sauntered  
into the inner courtyard. Her father spinning Robb around in a circle, rustling his hair. Her mother  
standing at from the balcony of her sept, staring down at Jon Snow, a tight smile on her lips. There  
she saw Bran and Arya, practicing with a bow and arrow, while Jory watched on. She saw herself  
too, sitting below the large gargoyles that were no more, laughing with Jeyne Poole about some  
long forgotten joke as Maester Luwin tended to Rickon. Memories. But, they were all gone. She  
was all that remained. It would remain inside her, an empty void that would never be filled. Now,  
the people who murdered her mother and brother had filled this place of love with cruelty and  
treachery. She would have to cleanse it. Pick up the pieces and make it whole again.

  
As she entered the inner courtyard with Lord Petyr Baelish at her side, lords and knights knelt.  
She nodded in return, but her eyes were set on one man. He was staring at her, eyes cold and  
emotionless. Like two dirty chips of ice. Blood was on his doublet, and his arm was bleeding, but  
Roose Bolton showed no fear despite the chains he was put in. She dismounted her horse and  
moved towards him, her dress flapping in the cold wind. He met her stare, gazing at her coldly.  
Assessing her. “Lady Sansa. Welcome.” His voice cut like ice. He was mocking her.

  
“Lord Bolton,” she felt herself say. Her voice was full of spite and malice. Stronger than I feel.  
“Or are you a Lord at all? I believe the Dreadfort was burned to the ground.” She smirked, and  
saw a hint of anger around the edges of his mouth. “Wildfire is very effective. And Winterfell has  
been returned to me. So you’re not a lord anymore, are you? Kneel, Bolton. I am your Queen  
now.”

  
He smirked back at her. “Tommen Baratheon is King, my lady. You should know, you were to  
marry his brother except he cast you aside. Tell me, how did that feel?”

  
She raised his eyebrows at him in mock glee. “Wonderful. Not marrying me was the best decision  
Joffrey ever made as King. You see, if I had married Joffrey, I would not be here to see you snivel  
and smirk at me, while I destroy all you love. Tell me, where is your little monster of a son? I  
believe Joffrey and him would have been excellent friends.”

  
He did not break. He wouldn’t, she knew. He was a proud man. “Raping your little sister, I  
believe. When your men stole through the castle, he went to her for one last row. Maybe if you  
look quickly enough, you’ll still find her clinging to the last vestiges of life, for he surely slit her  
throat.” He was trying to goad her. Shock her. Cause her mask to fall in front of all these people  
who respected her. She would not give him the satisfaction.

  
She spit on his face, and he flinched for a second but opened his eyes again. “That girl isn’t my  
sister, Bolton. You’re a disgusting excuse for a man.” She turned and walked away. But, the Lord  
of Leeches had turned his attention to another target. “Tell me, Lord Baelish. The Lannisters made  
you one of the greatest lords of Westeros, yet here you are undermining them. Why gamble with  
your position? An army belongs to a man, not a young girl. Take your chance while you can, and  
I promise not to tell Cersei Lannister.” Sansa turned around and glared at him. “Or are you too  
busy fucking this fine piece of--” She saw Petyr wave his hand, and the Umber man holding him  
punched him in the mouth, silencing him.

  
Sansa turned her attention to Lord Locke. “Have you located Ramsay Bolton?”

  
“Oh, we’ve found him alright. But, he did not come easily.” His eyes softened. “I am sorry, my  
Queen. The girl… She is dead.” Sansa had expected it, but she stiffened all the same. She did not  
expect to find Jeyne Poole alive. She had suffered much in life, death was her release. Sansa only  
hoped she had found courage in the final moments of her life.

  
A scuffle was heard, and a tall, brutish man bleeding from all ends was brought before her. Lord  
Harrold kicked him to his knees, forcing him to bend against his will. He spit at the ground, blood  
splattering. He looked up at her then, and his cruel mouth turned into a leer. “My my what have  
we here?” She felt heat rush into her face, but a strong presence soon stood at her side. “I will not  
have Queen Sansa listen to these traitor’s insults for a moment longer. Take him and his father and  
all the others and lock them in the dungeons. Make sure the chains are strong, and the guard is  
tripled.” Petyr’s eyes were hard as stone. No, not Petyr. Littlefinger.

  
But, like his father, Ramsay Bolton would not go quietly. “I left you a present, wolf bitch. I’m told  
ladies like lace? This one might be a bit bloodied.” He licked his split lip provocatively, tasting his  
own blood. “She may not be your sister, but I left her nice and bloodied for you. Her cunt is ri--”  
Lord Harry silenced him with a punch that sent a few teeth flying and dragged him away, but his  
evil laughter filled the courtyard and his lewd remarks continued despite the attempts to silence  
him with pain.

  
Sansa narrowed her eyes. “I want an execution first thing in the morning.”

  
Petyr held her arm lightly, and looked deep into her eyes. The mask was still in place but he  
looked at her with empathy. “It will be done, sweetling.” He stepped back from her then, and  
began shouting orders to the men assembled. There were bodies to be cleared out and burned  
before the night fell. Fires to be made to warm the hall. Reconstruction would begin tomorrow,  
and lumber brought in from the wolfswood.

  
Sansa tried to steel herself, but it would not work. “Lord Locke?”

  
“My Queen?”

She bit her lip. “Show her to me. I-I want to see what he did to her…”

  
“Your Grace, it is not advisable. Her body…it is not whole…you should not see such things…” A  
man as old as him, who had seen many battles was at a loss for words.

  
“Take me to her. I will not give her the indignity of ignoring her death. She will be remembered.  
Her sacrifice…”

  
He nodded in submission and moved toward the Great Keep. She followed him, keeping a  
distance between him and her. As they moved, soldiers turned to stare at her and smiled. She did  
not smile back, her face was hard. They could not expect her to show happiness, even if she had  
won. They reached the staircase and as they ascended the great stone steps, Sansa realized where  
she was. This leads to Robb’s chambers. As they reached neared a room where more men were  
gathered, her fears were confirmed. He murdered my brother, then took his room. She bade the  
men move aside. They looked at her with sympathy, some with anger in their eyes. The body of  
Jeyne Poole lay sprawled on the carpet. Her arms were contorted at an unnatural angle. Blood was  
spooled all around and Sansa realized she had suffered immensely in her last moments. Her eyes  
although dull and lifeless, were badly bruised and fearful. Truthfully, you could not tell it was a  
human. The body looked as though animals had been at it. Hundreds of bite marks littered her  
flesh, and chunks were torn out of it. Sansa felt bile rise in her throat. He would pay. He would  
suffer far more than his cold father. She would flay him herself.

  
She heard a whimpering sound. Muffled and suppressed from somewhere in the room. She moved  
in, and a hand grabbed her wrist, but she glanced back and the knight dropped it. She avoided the  
body, though blood had already stained her hem. The sound grew louder. “My lady…?” She  
motioned for a knight to follow, and two were swiftly at her side. The sound was loudest as she  
neared a wooden trunk. She opened it, and a thin man with skin stretched out over his scalp hid  
his face in his hands. She noticed he was missing fingers, three on one hand and a thumb and  
pinky on the other. His hair was white as the snow. He whimpered in fear. Sansa looked back at  
the knights. “Pull him out.” The knights moved to the chest and dragged the man out. He was too  
weak to even put up a fight and slumped to the ground.

  
“Who is he?” she said. Sansa could not understand why a servant would hide in Ramsay Bolton's  
bedchamber. Hidden in a personal chest. Was he someone the bastard tortured? She turned to  
look at Lord Locke. He reached back and pulled forth a scruffy looking servant who bobbed his  
head up and down. “Answer the Queen, vagrant!”

  
“Yer Grace. I am only a servant. I am not a traitor. A mere common man. We all loved your  
father. Lord Stark was a--”

  
She cut him off. “No harm will come to you. Who is this man?”

  
He continued to bob his head up and down, fiddling with his thumbs. “You do not recall, Yer  
Grace. He was one of yers. The boy from Pyke. Though I suppose he is a boy no more. Nothing  
but a sack of bones and flesh.”

  
Sansa looked down at the white-hair wrinkled man in disbelief. It can't be. “Theon?” The  
creatures head jerked up in response, and he whimpered. She looked into his eyes. It was him.  
But, he was not Theon anymore. His eyes implored her, begged her. She felt disgusted. “Get him  
out of my sight!” She turned on her heel, but the creature grabbed her ankle. The knights kicked at  
him, and she turned back. He lay on the floor whimpering, staring at her. She remained standing,  
staring back at him in disbelief.

  
He slowly got himself to his knees, and clasped his hands together begging. “M'lady, please! I  
was ironborn…a son…a son of Pyke. Please milady…let me die as T-Theon Greyjoy. Please…”  
His voices trailed off and he began sobbing uncontrollably. “I am not Reek. I know it…I know  
my name. Theon. Theon Greyjoy.” She hated the way he was looking at her. Like he wanted to  
drown in her. “Your father’s ward…”

  
Sansa felt bile rise up in her throat for a second time. “Take him to the dungeons. Away from  
Ramsay. I’ll decide his fate later.” She turned on her heel quickly and left as the creatures sobs  
grew louder. She stopped at the doorway and turned back to look at the crumpled body of Jeyne.  
“Bring her outside,” she whispered. “I shall light her funeral pyre.”

  
She strode out of the room, and the men did not follow her. They had much to do. She descended  
the staircase, and turned around the corner, finding a small alcove relatively hidden from view.  
And there Sansa Stark went down on her knees and retched. She sat there, hidden in the shadows  
of her childhood home alone and sobbed in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG CHAPTER! I really enjoyed writing this out, all the raw emotion and  
> somewhat-expected-but-unexpected-sequence-of-events.  
> Let me know what you think, I always appreciate feedback and criticism :)


	23. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Revenge is Coming!

Sansa did not know how many hours passed or if they passed at all. But, soon enough her  
protector found her. She heard his soft, almost silent footfalls before she felt his presence. Next,  
she smelled the mint. She did not look up at him, and remained staring at the wall in front of her.  
She felt him sit down beside her. Felt him gather her hands and the gentle breath of his lips as he  
kissed her fingers slowly, one by one. She turned her head then, and met his eyes. The cold grey  
stones were gone, and a meadow of green stared back.

  
She knew her eyes were red and swollen. It mattered not. He softly took her head, and placed a  
kiss on each eye, wiping away her tears. She felt the sobs rattle through her chest all over again,  
and nestled into his chest. He held her close, slowly stroking her hair, whispering soothing words.  
A time passed, and she felt calm again. She removed herself from his arms, and placed a soft kiss  
on his lips. “Thank you, Petyr.” He smiled back at her, a true smile, and raised himself from the  
dirty ground. He reached for her hand, and she placed hers in his, allowing him to pull her up.

  
He turned her around and helped her remove the dust and dirt from her dress. Then, he noticed the  
blood on her hem. His expression darkened. Sansa smiled at him weakly. “I’m alright,” she  
whispered.

  
He placed a kiss on her forehead, giving her strength. “Come, sweetling.” They moved toward the  
courtyard together. “If I could erase all the horrors that you have witnessed these past few hours, I  
would. But, far better than that is revenge. Do you have any plans for Ramsay?” She looked at  
him then. He knew she would. No one knew her the way he did. “No beheading. He does not  
deserve that honour. Have him ripped to shreds by the dogs.”

  
Petyr nodded, and led her outside of the gates of the castles into the surrounding hills. Somehow  
in a matter of hours, the hundreds of body had been gathered up and laid atop platters of wood.  
Dozens of funeral pyres. A knight handed Petyr a torch and he took it, leading Sansa to the largest  
one. The Silent Sisters had cleaned her body, and lay a crown of blue winter roses on her head.  
Lyanna. My father’s sister was known for her crown of roses. Jeyne looked every bit as beautiful  
as her aunt had been. In death, she looked almost peaceful. Mercifully, her mangled body had  
been covered in a grey silk sheet. Her face was left unharmed. She could have been sleeping.

  
Farewell, little friend.

  
Sansa turned to Petyr and nodded. He gave her a reassuring look, and handed her the torch.  
Ahead, dozens of men positioned next to the funeral pyres did the same. She took a deep breath,  
and touched the fire to the wood causing it to ignite. Sansa watched as her friend was kissed by  
fire. Farewell.

  
Wyman Manderly sauntered up to her then. She did not look at him, focusing on the yellows and  
oranges of the fire as they danced. “May she find peace in death.”

  
May we find peace in this life, Sansa thought.

  


***

  
The next morning, the winter sun rose in the North. The same as it had done for thousands of  
years. But, this time, the servants agreed, the air felt a little lighter, the shadows a little less fearful.  
Winterfell’s daughter had returned. Today was the day she would avenge her family. At midday,  
the executions would begin.

  
Sansa Stark sat in what was once her father’s solar. It remained unchanged. The desk still stood by  
the windows that looked out into the inner courtyard. The wall hangings depicted a battle scene  
from generations ago. Even the simple glass wolf was in the exact spot she remembered. It was a  
mercy. The only room in Winterfell that remained unaltered. The direwolf statues had been  
destroyed. The bodies of flayed men and heads on spikes had been taken down. All the Bolton  
banners burned. It was only the morning after the battle, but lumber had been brought in from the  
wolfswood to rebuild the stables and other fallen structures. The entrance ways that were littered  
with fallen stone and debris was being cleared. The restoration had begun. She had been to the  
maester early in the morning, Lord Redfort was alive but in a terrible state. For the first time since  
she arrived in the North, Sansa prayed to her mother’s gods to save him. A loyal friend.

  
Now, Sansa sat at her father’s desk. She closed her eyes and felt the cool leather on the armchair.  
She remembered a time when she had come crying in from the rain, her dress ruined. Her father  
told her not to make a fuss, another dress would be made for her. But, her wailing grew louder  
and he took her small body into his arms and held her tight until she calmed down. In the last  
months of his life, Sansa had not been kind to him. Ned Stark had said “war was easier than  
daughters.” Arya and her were constantly bickering. She used to brag and gloat. In the last  
moments with her family, she had been an arrogant and presumptuous child. That was the way  
she would be remembered. By Father, Mother and Robb. But, the others…surely one of her  
siblings must be alive.

  
She brushed the thought away, and looked through the stack of letters that had been addressed to  
Roose Bolton. Most of them were what she expected. Lords pledging fidelity to him as the new  
Warden. A letter from Tommen Baratheon legitimizing Ramsay as Roose’s natural son. Other  
letters from spies and informants depicting the ongoings of Stannis and his imminent approach. A  
few letters telling of rumours of the return of Sansa Stark. Another confirming the Lady Sansa had  
taken Torrhen’s Square. She smiled at that one, and another saying a rider was dispatched to tell  
the news the Dreadfort was no more.

  
She picked up a letter with the seal of the Night’s Watch. It was signed by Jon Snow, Lord  
Commander requesting more men to be sent to the Watch. She sighed. Petyr had advised her not  
to write to her half-brother and tell him of her arrival in the North. Now, would be the best  
moment. She picked up a quill and dipped it in ink, but another letter caught her eye. This one was  
signed Allister Crawley, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. She picked it up and began to  
read.

  
Alliser Thorne has been elected 1000th Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch after the  
disappearance of the previous Commander.

  
Sansa frowned. The letter was from two days ago. She picked up the other letter signed by Jon,  
and it was sent only a week before. How could he disappear in only two weeks? And whoever  
this Alliser Thorne was, he would have to be important to be elected a Lord Commander.

  
Something did not seem right, she could feel it. This man could not be trusted. Once her army was  
rested, she would send a few men to the Wall to find out what happened to her brother. A knock  
sounded on her door, and Ser Emery the knight from Runestone that had been charged as gaelor  
came bursting in. “Lady Stark! Come quickly! Ramsay Bolton has been murdered!”

  
Sansa bolted out of her seat, and all but ran to the dungeons. Half a dozen guards were outside a  
cell farthest from the doors. Sansa rounded around the corner and gasped. Ramsay Bolton, for all  
the cruelty and suffering he had caused others, had been dealt the same hand. His eyes were  
ripped out from his skull. His face was no longer recognizable and had been cleared of all flesh.

  
Flayed, she realized. Someone had dealt the bastard of Bolton a death he deserved. But, whoever  
that person was had robbed her of revenge. She glanced at the guards, anger in her eyes. “How  
did this happen? Was he not guarded at all times?”

  
Ser Emery glared at his fellow gaelors. “My lady, he was guarded at all times. Bounded in irons  
and shackles and separated from the rest. We only left him alone for five minutes to bring out the  
other prisoners…”

  
“And do we not have thousands of soldiers who could have been charged with watching him?”  
she snapped.

  
“My lady…He was shackled and bound. We did not expect…My deepest apologies, my Queen.”

  
Ser Emergy knelt before her, seeking her forgiveness. She turned away from him, making him  
wait for her pardon. There was someone else among them who hated Ramsay almost as much as  
she did, if not more. Theon. “Arise, Ser Emery! A cruel death for a cruel boy. It is more than I had  
hoped to give him.” She turned to the other guards. “Search the castle. Bring me anyone who has  
fresh blood on their clothes. Now!” Sansa needed to find who this unknown assailant was. “Did  
you follow my orders, Ser Emery? Theon was not to be touched? Or is he too waiting at the  
executioner’s block?” He shook his head, clearly disappointed in himself.

  
“Take me to him.” They walked further into the dungeons, and stopped at a cell that had a foul  
reek coming from within. Sansa held her nose. She motioned for Ser Emery to open the gate, and  
he hesitated. “The man has five fingers less and all the strength of a babe.” He consented, and  
Sansa stepped inside.

  
Theon or Reek whatever he was lay huddled in the darkest corner of the cell. He whimpered as  
she approached. Theon could not have done the act, she knew. He had no strength and no will.  
He had lived in fear of Ramsay for years. But, perhaps he heard something as far away as he was.  
“Theon?” He whimpered in response, backing farther against the wall. Sansa remembered a time  
when she did not wish death upon Lancel Lannister, when he stumbled into the Red Keep with a  
bloodied shoulder, even though he was her enemy. But, Lancel had not taken her castle or  
betrayed the family who once loved him. Theon had committed many sins. Then why do you not  
execute him like the rest? He is as bad as the Boltons. But, Theon looked pathetic and small  
before her. “Theon…” she said more gently and leaned down a bit to see him better. “Look at  
me.” He did, and his lip quivered. “I need to know if you heard anything strange? Any shouts or  
screams?”

  
The frail man’s lip began to quiver violently. “A ghost milady…sh-she came here.” He wiped his  
eyes and began to rock back and forth.

  
“A ghost?” This was getting ridiculous. Winterfell held many ghosts, but they were ghosts and  
memories of the past, replaying in a constant loop as she walked the halls of her home. Those  
ghosts would harm no one.

  
He stared blankly at her. “She came here…the girl…she wanted to k-kill Re-Theon. But then…I  
heard screams.” Tears streamed out of his eyes. “She killed m’lord R-Ramsay.”

  
Sansa stood up abruptly. The assailant was a girl. Winterfell held very few girls, and mostly old  
serving women. She turned to speak to Ser Emery, leaving Theon behind. His voice sounded so  
lonely and afraid. “L-Lady Sansa…They know me, they know my name.” Sansa turned to look at  
him. He was more haunted by demons and ghosts of the past than she was. “I am a Queen now,  
Theon. You will do well to remember that.” Her voice was cold.

  
She swept out of the cell her white cloak trailing behind her, Ser Emery following close behind.  
She spoke as they walked, never looking at him. “Our assailant is a girl. Round up every woman  
under twenty and five and have her ready for me when I return.” He nodded in response.  
“They’re ready for you, Your Grace.”

  
Sansa stopped and stared at him. She had almost forgotten about the rest of the prisoners. She  
sighed, but ascended the steps into the inner courtyard with her head held high and faced the  
prisoners.

  
They all stared at her. Some of them with hatred and anger, others with fear of their inevitable fate.  
Roose Bolton had a blank look on his face. Barbary Dustin’s eyes were cold. There were four  
Ryswells. And a long string of Freys. Sansa sniffed. Lord Walder’s vile spawn were everywhere.

  
Looking back at her were the frightened eyes of Lady Walda, the wife of Roose. She seemed to  
be pleading with her. Does she think she will be spared because she is a woman? Out of the  
corner of her eyes, she saw Petyr Baelish leaning against an archway, eating an apple and looking  
very smug.

  
Sansa glared at him. Where had he been this whole time? She focused her attention to Lord  
Umber and his great valryian steed sword. She nodded and the first Frey was brought to the block.  
She moved beside him, and all eyes were on her. “I, Sansa of the House Stark, Lady of Winterfell  
and Queen of the North and the First Men, here in the eyes of Gods and Men do sentence you to  
die.”

  
It went on and on, heads rolled. She never grimaced, never faltered. Sansa’s eyes were on Roose  
Bolton with every sigh that shocked the yard. His eyes stared back at her, cold and hard. Until  
there were only three left. Lady Barbery Dustin’s head had been shaved clean. The old woman  
went to her knees with a grunt before the block. Sansa moved her eyes from Roose to stare at the  
woman. She glared at Sansa, eyes full of hate. “Be damned Sansa Stark, you are no Queen of  
mine. May your cursed father rot in hell!” Sansa never wavered, even though the words stung.  
She smirked at the woman. “My father is feasting with the gods, Lady Dustin. He was a noble and  
honourable man who stayed true to his own. The same cannot be said for traitors, so it shall be  
you in hell.” Her head swung off the same as any other.

  
Lady Walda began crying loudly as it was her turn to approach the block. “Please my Lady!  
Please! I am not like them!” A Frey is a Frey. The woman would not stop blubbering. Sansa  
closed her eyes and passed the sentence. Silence followed. She had told Roose Bolton that she  
would destroy everything he loved, she had lived up to that promise.

  
Roose Bolton was brought forward. His face, cold and hard was now blank. He knelt before the  
block. “The old gods despise turncloaks, Bolton. You cannot hope for atonement from them. Do  
you have any last words?” She raised her eyebrows. She would mock him even in his final  
moments.

  
“Where is my son? He was to die before me.” Sansa held her lips in a tight line. “Someone else  
beat me to it. He was found dead in his cell only moments after you departed. His eyes gouged  
out. Skin flayed from his face.” Roose stared at her for a second, then nodded.

  
“A peaceful land, a quiet people is all I ever wanted. If only he had not been born.” He placed his  
head on the block, accepting his fate.

  
She passed his sentence, but Lord Mors hesitated. “My Queen, your father always said the man  
who passes the sentence should swing the sword.” They wanted this, she realized. The Lords of  
The North wanted to see the stuff she was made of. But, she was made of tougher stuff than they  
ever realized. This was her death, her revenge.

  
She looked at Mors Umber’s great valyrian steel sword. It was slightly smaller than her father’s  
sword Ice, but still far too heavy for her to lift. She looked across the courtyard, and Petyr had  
long finished his apple and was watching her. “Lord Baelish, step forward,” she called.

  
Petyr had a look of surprise on his face. Clean hands, Sansa. Whatever you do, make sure you’re  
hands are clean. She looked down and noticed her dress had a few dots of blood. Petyr  
approached her and bowed. “My Queen.”

  
She smiled at him. “Your dagger, my lord.” Petyr stared at her, hesitant. He seemed to be deciding  
something. Then, he unsheathed the dagger and handed it to her.

  
Sansa stepped around the block, and stood behind Roose Bolton. My mother had her throat cut to  
the bone, and her body thrown in the river. She held the dagger close to his throat. She could feel  
his heart beating rapidly. “The North Remembers.” She quickly pulled the knife across his throat,  
cutting a deep gash as his blood spewed onto the ground.

  
The Stark Queen stepped back. “Throw his body to the wolves.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think my favourite part of writing fanfic is getting to brutally kill characters I really  
> really hate aka the Boltons. This was so gratifying, especially the irony of how  
> Ramsay died. Sometimes I feel like this story is really how I want game of thrones to  
> unfold and end, but that's only wishful thinking...  
> Anyways, the next chapter is one of my absolute favourites and you'll soon see why.  
> It has a bit of a happy surprise in it to remove from all this gore and bloodshed :D  
> p.s sansa did not know lady walda was pregnant


	24. How Rare and Beautiful

The Queen of the Winter stepped into the godswood. It was the first time in years. She had not  
come into it since regaining her ancestral home almost a week ago, deciding to see to  
reconstruction, food storage and supplies and the prisoners. She had avoided it for as long as she  
could. But, it seemed to call out to her and she could avoid it no longer. After all the years. All the  
pain and suffering and growth she had endured, it remained the same. Unchanged. Exactly as she  
remembered it. Beautiful. Tranquil. Peaceful. But, now a tinge of sadness was present as well. She  
moved through it quietly, grateful it was empty so she could be alone. The ground had less snow  
than the rest of the North, for the hot springs kept it warmer. Sansa Stark knelt in the snow. Above  
her, the red leaves of the great weirwood tree rustled in the wind. This was my father’s place. His  
godswood. This is where he came.

  
No, it was my place too. She remembered sitting on the large root beside the pond, her mother  
singing and braiding flowers through her hair. She remembered Jon asking her to meet him near  
the great tree, so no one would hear him ask her advice on how to speak to girls. She remembered  
Bran, Arya and her running around and chasing each other, laughing wildly as they tripped over  
roots and stones. Such a happy place. Our family was so full of love and joy. She had never  
known happier moments in all her days. Then the lions came and tore us all apart. Each and  
every one of us destroyed. Broken. Why had she ever wanted to leave? She wanted to be Queen.  
Begged her mother to tell father to let her marry Prince Joffrey. If she had not, would they all still  
be here? She removed her glove, and touched the snow, placing her soft fingers against the cold  
ground.

  
A beautiful dream, my old life was. She would never get it back again. The innocence was gone.  
What was left was a shadow of her former self. Sansa Stark had always been kind, but her  
kindness now did not even compare to the love for others she felt as a child. She pushed herself  
off the ground, and moved towards the carved face, reaching out and touching it. Her hand came  
back, sticky with red. I sacrificed for you. Spilled the blood of my enemy. The old gods had  
listened, answered her prayers. She peered into the face. In the wolfswood, she swore the face had  
changed, but she had told no one, not even Petyr. It was a delusion, a trick of the light. She smiled  
sadly and sat down on the large root, just as her father would have many years ago.

  
The leaves rustled, and Sansa thought she heard someone call her name. She looked around,  
expecting to see someone emerge into her woods. But, no one came. She settled herself  
comfortably against the tree. It came again, her name sounded twice. She stood and looked  
around. A raven cawed. It doesn’t matter who it is, no one can harm me in Winterfell.

  
She stood and walked slowly towards the pond. Her reflection stared back at her. Did I always  
look so serious? She had been a laughing, happy child. Now, the woman who stared back at her  
had no laughter in her eyes. And yet he still loves you. She moved her fingers through the water. It  
was warm to the touch. Innocence and experience make for a perfect marriage, he had said. But,  
Sansa was not so innocent anymore. She had killed men.

  
“Sansa…” The voice came again, as soft as a feather. She felt oddly at peace. The old gods know  
me, they know my name. “I am here,” she whispered back, tears springing to her eyes. A single  
red leaf lightly landed on the surface of the water, sending ripples through her reflection. After  
they receded, a boy was staring back at her. He had long black hair and grey eyes. A sharp noble  
nose. He looks so solemn. Is he a god? But, there was something familiar about him. The eyes,  
they held love and longing. The tears fell from her eyes and landed into the pool. He’s my own,  
she realized. Bran. She startled backward and felt a sharp pain, then suddenly the world went  
black.

  
When Sansa awoke, she felt tingly. She sat up. Her head was aching slightly, but she felt a warm,  
cloudy feeling embracing her. This isn’t the godswood, she realized. Around her, were roots and  
dead leaves, along with the scattered bones of animals. She inhaled, but no smell filled her senses.  
Am I dreaming? Or have I died and entered another world.

  
“Sansa.” She turned and before her on a throne of weirwood, he sat. She supressed a cry of  
surprise, and slowly stood. It was him, but he was older. He looked at her expectedly, and with a  
mixture of sadness and happiness. But, he was not whole. Changed somewhat. His limbs were a  
part of the throne, his legs attached to the bottom. A leaf sprung from his hand. She rushed  
towards him. He looked at her and nodded, encouraging her. She slowly reached out her hand and  
touched his face. “Are you real…or I am a dreaming? Please if this is a dream, let me not  
awaken.”

  
Bran clasped her hand on his cheek, he felt warm and full of life. “No sister, it is not a dream. You  
hit your head when you fell, and your blood seeped into the roots of the weirwood.” She heard a  
rustle and a low whine, and soft fur was at her side. A large wolf looked at her, tongue sticking  
out. It nuzzled its head against her hand. “Summer… it is you…I have…I have thought of you so  
much, Bran.” The tears flowed freely now. “They said you died…you and Rickon…” A cry left  
her lips. “What happened to you?” She slid to her knees, feeling weak and gazed up at him.  
Summer settled beside her, placing his head on her lap.

  
“We journeyed beyond the Wall. The three-eyed raven. He came to me. I am the last greenseer,  
Sansa. I can see from the faces carved in the trees. And other things…” He inclined his head  
towards the leaves and branches behind him. “I have been watching you since you left the lush  
lands. I can see from the faces in the trees. The ones the Children made. But, your mind became  
open to me the day you spilled the blood of the man in your sacrifice. The man who passes the  
sentence must swing the sword. The old gods have accepted you, sister. There must always been a  
Stark in Winterfell.”

  
“But… I …Bran, you are a Stark, come home with me. They’re all gone, Bran. Father. Mother.

  
Robb. Arya. Rickon. Jon. I am all alone in the world.” The word from her men when they  
journeyed to the Wall was that Jon had been killed. Though the new Lord Commander Alliser  
Thorne had insisted Jon Snow’s body had been found beyond the Wall after a mission, her men  
found out he had been killed, betrayed by his own men. Ah, us Starks. We trust too much and  
suspect too little. The strange thing was his body had disappeared, though she insisted she wanted  
his bones back to place in the family crypt. Her father’s bones had been returned to her, and she  
cried as she placed them alongside her mother and brother. A proper ceremony had been held to  
honour the fallen Starks. Jon would not get that honour.

  
Bran dropped her hand then. She grimaced at the loss of contact. But, Bran’s face was still kind.  
He was always a fun child. I used to tell him stories. He was to be a knight in my Queensguard.  
But, he could not be. Not anymore. Not when he was all but becoming a tree. “Jon isn’t gone,  
Sansa. I can still feel him.”

  
She shook her head sadly. “He became Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch. He was stabbed  
by his own men.”

  
“No, I can feel him Sansa. I am able to warg into Summer’s mind. A warg is…” He hesitated, but  
she nodded indicating she knew. “Right. Summer can feel his siblings. He feels heart ache at the  
loss of Lady. Of Grey Wind. But, Nymeria and Shaggydog are still alive. And so is Ghost. But,  
he felt strange last night. Confused. I think Jon was able to warg into Ghost when he died.”

  
Sansa stared at him wide-eyed. “He isn’t dead…how can we…can you…” She was at a loss for  
words. This was all so new to her. So unbelievable. He was a greenseer. He had magical abilities.

  
Abilities she could not believe existed months ago. Yet, she was here. She could touch him and  
Summer. Feel the direwolf’s warm breath on her hand. Somehow, her blood trickling into the  
earth and roots surrounding her father’s heart tree had allowed her to be reunited with her long lost  
little brother.

  
He reached for her hand again and held her eyes with his gaze. “We can help him, Sansa. I need  
you to do something. Roose Bolton beheaded King Stannis at this tree. He used the King’s blood  
and it took a lot of my strength to not accept such a sacrifice from the man who murdered our kin.

  
The Children did not like it. You need to use a better sacrifice.”

  
Sansa shook her head. Her father would frown down upon them. “I…who, Bran? We do not have  
another King…”

  
He smiled at her. “Yes, you do. Theon Greyjoy.”

  
Theon. He had begged her for a clean death. Let me die as Theon, he kept wailing. She left Theon  
alone in his cell for the past week, undecided about what to do with him. But, Balon Greyjoy had  
declared himself King of the Iron Islands. That made Theon his rightful heir and King. Bran broke  
into her thoughts. “I’ve seen him, Sansa. He is not the Theon we knew. He has suffered. More so  
than you, he betrayed me. He saved my life from the Wildlings. And then he went to war with  
Robb and turned his back on our brother. He took over our home, and would have killed us had  
Rickon and I not escaped. We need him now.”

  
Sansa could not believe it. Another sacrifice. More blood to be spilled by her hand. Her head  
started to spin, and she felt herself fall backwards. Summer lept up and started sniffing her head.  
She heard his voice through a fog. “You need to return to your body…the blood…  
communicate…Theon… tree.” She felt as though time was speeding up and her head was about  
to burst.

  
Then, shaking. “Sansa…Sansa…” The fog was clearing. She mumbled something incoherent.

  
“Sansa!” Petyr Baelish’s face came into vision. She reached for his face. The face she loved most,  
and lightly brushed his nose. It was smooth and slightly cold. “Petyr…” she breathed.

  
“You’re freezing.” He took off his cloak and wrapped her in it, scooping her up from the ground  
and quickly turning back towards the castle. “What happened?” He touched her forehead, and  
Sansa winced slightly at the pain. He was here, he would always be here. She felt so at peace.

  
How rare and beautiful it is to even exist.

  
“Kiss me, Petyr.” He stopped, and gazed down at the girl lying in his arms. He hesitated. “Kiss  
me,” she repeated softly. His eyes softened, and he bent his head, placing his lips on hers. She felt  
a warmth spread through her, and smiled against his lips. “I love you.”

  
Surprise filled his features. Had they never really exchanged those words? She did not break her  
smile. In his eyes, she felt like the Queen of the world. He chuckled softly and begin to walk  
again. “You hit your head, sweetling. You must get some rest.” Sansa shook her head slowly, the  
dizziness at the edges as she moved.

  
“Do you love me too?” He stopped again, and brushed a curl behind her ear. “I am yours and you  
are mine, sweetling.” His whisper was hoarse. Would Littlefinger cry? He placed another tender  
kiss on her lips, and they walked back towards the castle. She nestled into his arms, relishing in  
the warmth radiating from his chest, despite her aching head and slightly soaked clothes. He loved  
her. He said it. At last. She felt whole again for the first time in a long time. Completed.

  
“And Petyr?”

  
“Yes, sweetling?” He raised an eyebrow.

  
“I’ve decided what to do with Theon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really loved writing this chapter. Its beautiful but sad at the same time because  
> although Sansa will now always be connected to Bran she will never be able to  
> physically see him as he really is becoming a part of the weirwood. Nor does he want  
> rescuing.  
> Sorry for all the Theon lovers but really I'll give him an honourable end. You could  
> see it coming.  
> I'm loving the magic part of the story but it is just one part of the bigger picture here  
> and is more associated with the North than the South.  
> Stay tuned! :)


	25. What is Dead May Never Die

They know me, they know my name. Sansa realized what Theon had meant by those words. The  
old gods had spoken to him before. Bran had seen him in the godswood. He’s been watching over  
us all. Sansa stood at the entrance of the godswood. It was night. Lanterns had been placed along  
the path, lighting the way. It was eerily quiet. No breeze came. No soft sounds of an owl hooting  
or the distant cry of a wolf.

  
Theon was escorted by two guards. He approached her slowly, shuffling through the snow. They  
had removed his shackles and dressed him in his old clothes. The clothes of the Theon Greyjoy  
she had known, the boy she grew up with. The iron kraken emblazoned his chest. But, this Theon  
did not look Ironborn. He’s a king in his own right, and he does not even know it. It would be a  
mercy to not tell him. He met her eyes, and this time his lips did not quiver and he did not look  
afraid. He seemed almost peaceful. He asked me for a clean death, and I shall give it to him. He  
shall die as Theon Greyjoy and not as Reek.

  
Sansa took a lantern from a post, and led Theon into the godswood. A few of the Northern Lords  
were gathered around the great heart tree. Sansa breathed in the cold, winter air. I am the North.  
She gave the lantern to Lady Maege whose face was somber. She glanced back and looked at  
Theon. He looked stronger almost. Like the frail man truly was being reborn. She had never told  
him why he was brought here. She wondered how Theon had felt when he was scrubbed clean,  
hair trimmed and dressed as an Ironborn. Like a lamb for the slaughter.

  
Theon met her gaze. He was the truest ghost of Winterfell. A shadow from the past. Was this a  
sacrifice or a mercy killing?

  
The guards moved to drag Theon near the large roots of the weirwood, but Sansa raised her hand  
to stop them. They let him go, and Theon knelt at the base of the tree himself. He looked up at the  
red leaves and smiled slightly. They know me, they know my name. Sansa looked at the carved  
face and it stared back at her unchanged. This is for you, Bran.

  
She stepped away from the small crowd, who stood at the edges and the guards stepped back. It  
was just Sansa and Theon. She took the dagger holstered at her waist and stepped towards Theon.

  
“I, Sansa of the House Stark of the blood of the First Men, Lady of Winterfell and Queen of the  
North sentence Theon of House Greyjoy, ward of Eddard Stark…and King of the Iron Islands to  
die, in the sight of the old gods. May they accept my sacrifice.”

  
If he understood her words, Theon did not react. He knelt on his knees, with the shadow of a  
smile on his face. “What is dead may never die, but rises again harder and stronger.” He looked at  
her and smiled widely. “Thank you, Sansa.”

  
Sansa bit her lips, and felt tears at the back of her throat. This was not her first kill but why did it  
feel like it was? This was different. This felt raw. She knew him. Shared memories with him. But,  
he betrayed your family. She moved behind him and placed the knife at his throat. Sansa hesitated.

  
An image flashed across her mind. She was walking with Robb in the godswood, teasing him  
about some girl only the summer before she left for King’s Landing. Robb laughed at her remarks  
and tousled her hair, which caused her to protest. He laughed and swung her around in a circle,  
the two of them laughing. In the circling world of green and red, Theon was there watching them  
from the side. She remembered feeling it was unfair that he had invaded their personal moment.

  
But, Theon had been a shadow then and he was a shadow now. In death, he would be reborn.  
No, not Theon. Jon.

  
Jon and his pretty black curls. Oh, how good it would be to see him again.

  
The dagger slit across the throat.

  
And the life’s blood of Theon Greyjoy, the last son of Balon seeped into the earth beneath the  
heart tree and caused another to rise again, harder and stronger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super short chapter! but I've laid Theon to rest and given him a death that might just  
> happen in the books??? Who knows... anyways, because it's a long weekend in  
> Canada and I have loads of time to write this weekend I'm posting 2 chapters tonight  
> so head on over to the next :D


	26. His Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special treat ;)

Lord Petyr Baelish sat in Sansa’s solar, tapping his knuckles against the solid oak wood of the  
desk. It was a beautiful piece, possibly hundreds of years old. A legend like the Stark’s  
themselves. Stark. The word meant strong. Petyr did not doubt the resiliency of the great and  
ancient house. But, he was growing impatient and that was something to say for a man who bade  
time pass.

  
It had been a week since Theon’s execution and Sansa had become engrossed in rebuilding the  
stables, the glass gardens, and parts of the Great Keep that had crumbled. She made sure there was  
enough firewood and supplies to last them long into the winter. But, they were not supposed to  
stay here for the winter. Petyr knew the time to act was now. Before the deep snows set in and  
made travel down the Kingsroad next to impossible. Before the Riverlands grew content with the  
end of the war Jaime Lannister had set upon them. Before the chaos north of Kings Landing  
settled. And before the Lords of the Vale decided it was time to go home.

  
He ran his hands over the smooth oak desk. Petyr would wait a little while longer.

  


***

  
Sansa swept into her solar and bolted the door behind her, resting her forehead against the door.

  
She had not noticed him yet. She moved towards the hearth and poked at the dying embers,  
throwing in a log to rekindle the flame. Petyr watched the way her light blue dress swished and  
swirled as she moved. Sansa had always been graceful and lady-like. It was one of the things  
about her that Petyr liked best. Her poise and politeness. She was very refined and well-mannered.

  
Her hair hung down to her waist in loose auburn curls, and caught the light from the fireplace,  
sending glimmers of gold through it. Sansa was a fair maiden, no one could deny it. But, far more  
than her beauty, Petyr loved her mind. Beneath all the courtesy was steel and resilience. This girl  
would survive anything the world threw at her. They saw her beauty, but not the iron underneath.

  
She turned suddenly and gasped, his presence made aware. “Petyr, you startled me!” She regained  
her composure and moved towards the desk slowly, letting her fingers drag across the smooth  
surface of her father’s desk.

  
Petyr toyed with a ring on his finger. “It appears my Queen is too busy for her Hand. I can  
scarcely get a moment alone with you.” He raised his eyebrows.

  
Sansa bit her lip seductively, and moved around his chair in circles. Her hands trailed up his  
shoulders very slowly as she stood behind him, and she bent and lightly tickled his ear with her  
tongue. “We can fix that…” she breathed. She came around the chair and sat in his lap, her fingers  
loosening his collar as she kissed his neck. Petyr felt his heart rate increase and his breathing get a  
little faster. He had not had her in weeks, and he could only think how tight she was. His arms  
circled her waist and held her as his hand slipped down her chest, pinching her nipples roughly.

  
Sansa let out a soft gasp, and increased her assault on his neck, sucking in his favourite spot. She  
adjusted her position and straddled him, pushing down on his clothed erection. Petyr felt himself  
straining. This was not going according to plan, but Sansa now turned her attention to his lips, and  
entered his mouth with her tongue, a playful giggle escaping her. He could hold it in no longer.

  
He pushed Sansa back onto the desk, the map of Westeros beneath her.

  
She fell backwards with a soft thud and bit her lip, beckoning him closer with a crooked finger.

  
Petyr lifted up her skirts to her waist, and pulled off a silk stocking, licking her inner thigh. Sansa  
hissed in response and held his head between her hands, guiding him closer to her apex. He pulled  
her smallclothes aside. She was wet, he smirked at her. He inserted two fingers into her and began  
to pump in and out. Petyr enjoyed watching Sansa squirm under him and moan his name. They  
were quiet, they had to be with a castle full of thousands of men. He was enjoying this even more  
because he was playing with her right on the map of Westeros. A thought that amused him very  
much indeed. Petyr was aching to get inside her, but then he realized. She had avoided any sexual  
encounters, and when she knew he wanted to discuss an important matter she used her charms on  
him. She was playing him, his little wolf. She was his only weakness. He pulled out of her  
suddenly, and wiped his fingers on a handkerchief. Sansa looked up, and stared. "What's wrong?"  
Her face crinkled into a look of worry and Petyr ached to kiss her, but he was a man of control.

  
“Sit down, sweetling. I enjoy you very much, but now is not the time. We have things to discuss.”

  
Sansa narrowed her eyes and sat on the desk, smoothing her skirts and looking very annoyed  
indeed. He gave her a pointed look and gestured towards the chair. She moved around the desk,  
glaring at him. She sat down and crossed her legs, placing her hands together on her lap. Her face  
was flushed. Her lips blood red. Her slight anger made her look even more beautiful. “Well?”

  
He smirked and took his seat across from her, behind the desk. Usually, Sansa liked to pretend she  
had the upper hand over him. Sitting in his chair smirking up at him, while he had to stand. But,  
did she not have the upper hand over him just now? Petyr needed to stay focused. And stop  
looking at a throbbing pulse near her flushed throat. “We need to move before the deep snows set  
in, making the Kingsroad impassable. We have a few weeks before the roads are closed. Now is  
the opportune moment. Call your bannermen and the Lords of the Vale. It’s time to declare you as  
Queen of Westeros.”

  
A flash of annoyance came over the pretty porcelain face and she averted her gaze from him. He  
expected as much. Sansa was getting too comfortable within her family home. He waited patiently  
for her answer. She stood up and moved to the window overlooking the snow-covered hills. She  
seemed lost in thought. “There’s much to be done. I cannot leave Winterfell unattended. Rickon  
has not yet been found. Soldiers who need to heal. There is reconstruction to be done, and  
smallfolk gathering in Winter Town…”

  
He cut her off. “You can leave a bannerman in charge here. Lady Maege or Mors Umber.  
Someone who can be trusted. We need to move, sweetling.” He paused for a moment. “Or has  
something changed?”

  
She turned slowly and faced him. “Jon Snow’s body has not been found.”

  
Petyr raised his eyebrows. “What does it matter? He is dead.”

  
She wrung her hands together and averted her gaze again. This time she appeared nervous. She  
had told him about how she sacrificed Theon, and Petyr refused to be present at the gruesome  
ritual. The charms of the North were truly lost on him. And he did not like the way it was  
corrupting his Queen. Petyr stood up and moved to the window. “Something has changed…”  
She bit her lip, and would not meet his eyes. He cupped her chin, tilting her head up. Slowly, her  
steel blue met his grey-green. “I…He is alive, Petyr. The sacrifice to the old gods worked.”

  
Petyr dropped her chin, and moved away from her slightly. Not, the bloody North again. “Is this  
the problem? The North has filled your head with silly lies and superstitions.”

  
“It is not a lie, Petyr! There are things you do not understand.” She swallowed and her eyes  
pleaded with his. “Our way is the old way. I saw his body come to life in my dreams.”

  
Petyr scoffed. He should have intervened sooner. Maybe it wasn't too late to force her into a  
carriage and move the whole army out of the castle, but that would be just as ridiculous as Sansa  
was sounding. He would have to be pragmatic. “Dreams? Don’t go back into your world of  
fantasy, Sansa. Life is not a song.”

  
“Stop treating me like I’m some foolish child, Petyr. The world was built on magic. Winterfell was  
constructed by giants. Harrenhal is cursed. The Others have returned. Just because you do not  
believe in it does not make it false.”

  
“Tales and stories. There is no proof.”

  
Sansa smirked at him. He wondered when she had begun to mimic his habit. Her nervousness  
dissipated and she seemed very sure of herself. “Yes, there is.” She moved closer to him, until  
they stood only a breath apart. “Daenarys Targaryen has dragons.”

  
Petyr ran his fingers through her hair. “Tales from the East. We have not seen them.”

  
She moved back. “By the time you learn that magic exists, it will be too late. There is still room in  
the world you want to create for us to live alongside it. But, tell me? How do you propose we  
defeat dragons? With direwolves? And even then, I have none.”

  
“We need to leave, Sansa. Daenarys and her dragons could be dead for all we know. You and I  
are real.”

  
Sansa shook her head. “Why does any of it matter? You’re Lord Paramount of the Trident, I’m  
Lady of Winterfell. Together we hold half the land in the Seven Kingdoms.” She took his hands  
and held them tightly. “Why isn’t it enough?” Her voice took on a sharp tone.

  
It would have been. Once. It would have been more than he could ever dreamed of or hoped to  
achieve. But, that had been long ago and that boy was dead. The girl had been different too. And  
Riverrun would have been enough. Even the Fingers. That was the past, the future is all that’s  
worth discussing. “You are destined to be Queen of Westeros. Not some maiden hiding in her  
family castle.” She glared at him, then slapped him. He reacted quickly, and in a whirl, grabbed  
her and whirled her around so she was pressed against him. He held her hands tightly, but not  
ungently. “Let me go.”

  
“No.” He pulled her closer, holding her tightly. They stayed like that for a few moments, and he  
felt Sansa ease slightly.

  
He whispered into her ear. “Go find your half-brother, but he will not be alive and you will be  
wasting time. Time we cannot afford to lose.”

  
“What if I told you I found two?” Was she mocking him?

  
“Two? Is this what you dream about, sweetling?” He chuckled into her hair, inhaling her sweet  
smell. He longed to be inside of her, but it was not the right time. Not with so many men roaming  
about the castle, and everyone wanting to speak to the Queen.

  
She turned around in his arms, and looped her arms across his shoulders. “The day I fell in the  
godswood and cut my head, I opened a portal in my mind between Bran and I.” He stared at her  
in disbelief, but she put a finger to his lips and continued. “Say what you will, but it is real.” Sansa  
told him the story of how she met Bran.

  
“He can see from the heart trees, the ones with carved faces. He saw Jon, and Theon’s blood was  
King’s blood, and with that blood, he entered the mind of Ghost, Jon’s direwolf. Jon tasted that  
blood. He has been reborn, Petyr. And he’s coming here, Petyr. Bran told him to find me in  
Winterfell. I cannot leave. Not until I see him and declare him as my heir.”

  
Petyr stepped back from her. Jon Snow. She did not know. He never told her. He could threaten  
everything. “Sweetling. This isn’t a joke.”

  
Sansa stared back at him. “I am not joking. It’s true.” She moved towards her father’s desk and  
pulled out two large books that looked very old. She held one in the air. “This one will tell you  
about wargs and greenseers.” She placed the indicated one on the desk, and held up the other.  
“And this one contains a small passage about the legend of Azor Ahai. A legendary figure from  
the Age of Heroes. He defeated the Others eight thousand years ago. Jon died, Petyr. And he was  
reborn. Read it yourself. My brother is coming, and if Bran is correct…then he is not the same  
Lord Commander. We will march for Harrenhal, but we cannot hope to rule the Seven Kingdoms  
if we do not deal with the Others. And winter has come.”

  
Sansa grabbed a cloak from a hook and headed towards the door, leaving Petyr at an utter loss for  
words. “You had best start reading, my lord. The world as we know it is about to change.” The  
door closed with a bang, and Petyr wondered how many times his Queen of Love and Beauty  
would leave him at a loss for words.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BAE IS SOOO DONE WITH THE NORTH LOL  
> Sorry for cutting sexy times short, but I have a lot planned and need to move the plot  
> forward :) There'll be plenty of that in later chapters ;)


	27. A Dragon

Sansa made her way down the corridor, the flames on the wall scones flickering as she passed.  
She had not wanted to tell him. But, what would he say in Jon Snow showed up at the gates of  
Winterfell unannounced? He would be treated as an imposter. She made her way up to the  
battlements of Winterfell, careful to avoid the ice and not slip a hundred feet below to certain  
death. Sansa stared out over the battlements and into the Great North. Everywhere she looked it  
stretched out, for hundreds of miles. The largest kingdom in Westeros. She had been a fool to  
suggest this was enough. It would never be. Not for Petyr. She wondered what could happen if  
they conquered all of Westeros and ruled together. Would he grow bored of her then?

  
No, he loves you. He said so himself. He was a great liar, and had served her many lies in the  
Eyrie, but those days were past. He shared everything with her now, didn’t he? She traced her  
fingers along the granite walls. He was right, they needed to move and quickly. The snows were  
getting deeper and deeper as the days passed. She had to think rationally. And the Long Night  
was coming. Old Nan’s stories had come back for her. Sprung to life. She only hoped Bran had  
the tools to defeat them.

  
She heard the snow crunch lightly behind her. Too light. A child. Or him.

  
She remained silent, staring out into the distance, her hood flapping in the frosty wind. If it was a  
child, could it be Ramsay’s murderer? Yara had not been found. Though soldiers had told her the  
young girl was the one who found the gap in the wall that led them into the crypts of Winterfell.

  
She was dangerous, whoever she was. If it was her, would she kill her next? Sansa turned around  
slowly and kept her eyes on the ground. If it was the girl, and if she did want to kill her, she would  
take her chances and push her off the battlements. The ice would make my task easier.

  
A long black robe. Gold intricate thread. Petyr. She slowly moved her eyes up and met his gaze.

  
He was staring at her intently. This is not too different from our first kiss in the garden. It had been  
snowing then too.

  
“There is something you need to know. Something I did not tell you.” His eyes were serious. The  
mask was on. She was not speaking to Petyr, but Littlefinger.

  
She crossed her arms, and matched his stare. She was nobody’s fool. He moved closer to her.

  
“There’s something you need to know about Lyanna Stark.” Sansa stared back at him confused.

  
What did her aunt have to do with anything?

  
“I saw her once. I was a boy, living with your mother’s family. Lord Whent held a Tourney at  
Harrenhal. Everyone was there. The Mad King. Your father. And Lyanna, she was already  
promised to Robert Baratheon. You can imagine what it was like for me… A boy with nothing to  
his name, watching these legendary men tilting at the lists.” He sounded almost sad. Sansa smiled  
at him lightly. Petyr remembered his past, as did she. Knowing your roots makes you stronger.

  
He smiled at her, then continued. “The last two riders were Barristan Selmy and Rhaegar  
Targaryen. When Rhaegar won, everyone cheered for their prince. I remember the girls laughing  
when he took off his helmet and they saw that silver hair. How handsome he was. Until he rode  
right past his wife Elia Martell, and all the smiles died. I had never seen so many people so quiet.

  
He rode past his wife and he lay a crown of winter roses in Lyanna’s lap. Blue as frost. How  
many tens of thousands had to die because Rhaegar chose your aunt?” He trailed off, staring into  
the distance.

  
Sansa scoffed. “Yes, he chose her. Then he kidnapped her and raped her.”

  
Petyr smiled sadly. “No, sweetling. Your aunt went with him willingly.”

  
Sansa stared at him. “What are you saying? She was a young girl, and promised to another.”

  
“Your aunt was willful. She did not love Robert. She fell in love with Rhaegar. They ran away to  
Dorne. To the Tower of Joy. That was where your father found her. Bleeding in her bed. A  
promise on her lips. A child pressed in his arms. A boy with black hair.” Sansa stepped back, and  
felt the cold wall behind her. Her aunt was only fifteen. And you are only sixteen, yet here you  
stand. A woman bedded and risen to power. Aunt Lyanna…

  
“No. You’re lying. Jon was…my father was not faithful to my mother. He slept with another  
woman. Jon is her child.” She shook her head. It was a lie. A trick.

  
He moved closer to her. “Noble Ned Stark? In all your life, did you ever see your father break a  
vow? No, Lord Stark loved your mother. And Rhaegar… Elia Martell could no longer bear  
children. Jon is not your brother, Sansa. He is a half-wolf. Half-dragon.”

  
Sansa sank down on the ground, letting the cold envelop her. Petyr knelt in the snow and ice  
beside her. “Lyanna’s son, sweetling. Your cousin.” His whisper was hoarse. Emotional. The man  
rarely showed his emotions. His was a world of calculation and logic. Sansa realized he was not  
lying.

  
“But, Bran…” She sniffed. “A direwolf pup for every Stark child.”

  
“He is a Stark, Sansa. But, only half. He is a Snow. A bastard child. But, his father was Rhaegar  
Targaryen.” He spoke softly. His eyes were soft. Petyr realized this hurt her, and that caused him  
grief. This was the cold, hard truth. Something he had tried to protect her from.

  
Sansa shivered. “My father protected her. Protected her honour. Is it all lies?”

  
“Beautiful and willful, Sansa. And dead before her time.” Sansa let the thought sink in. Jon was  
her cousin. Half wolf. Half dragon. He died and was reborn as Bran promised. Azor Ahai. The  
warrior that would save the world. But, the Targaryens held the Iron Throne for three hundred  
years. And he was one of the last ones living… “What does this mean for us, Petyr?”

  
He held her close. “No one knows, sweetling. Not even him. We kept the information from  
Robert and Cersei. Only the small council knew. Jon Arryn. Many of the men who knew are long  
dead. Ser Arthur Dayne. Ned Stark. I believe the only ones left are Varys and I.”

  
She was beginning to feel the cold. The wind whirled the snow around them. “What about us? If  
he’s a Targaryen…”

  
“…he will want the Iron Throne? Not necessarily, sweetling. You said your brother’s war is with  
the creatures beyond the Wall. He grew up a Snow. Why would he want to be King? There may  
be others though who would rather have a Targaryen in power. We’ll tell no one. Declare Jon as  
your heir. We need to move forward. Away from the winter.”

  
Sansa felt the fear in her voice. It was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Don’t you know? It’ll move  
south. Men and women froze in their homes as far south as Dorne. We need to help him.” They  
were running away. He had told her not to run. But, that was from her past. Were the Walkers not  
in her future?

  
Petyr sighed. “When will he come?”

  
Bran had not said when, only that he was. “I do not know. Soon.”

  
He stood up, and brushed the snow off his clothes. He extended his hand to her, and pulled her  
up. They stood facing each other. “We need to declare you as Queen. I’ll assemble the Lords in  
the Great Hall. This needs to happen now.” He started walking back towards the Great Keep.

  
Sansa stood out in the cold, letting it freeze over her body. I am the North, she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> R + L = J ;)  
> The next set of chapters are electric and it all poured out of me this weekend!  
> Queen of the Seven Kingdoms is coming


	28. First of Her Name

It was noisy. As it always was. Sansa Stark emerged through the doors of the Great Hall. Her long  
auburn hair flowed to her waist in loose curls, and a bronze crown rested on her head. As she  
strode through the Great Hall, the loud noise quieted and all eyes were upon her. She wore a light  
blue dress, a dire wolf embroidered in silver on her chest, two more direwolf clips holding the  
dark navy cloak on her shoulders.

  
She may not have known it, but Sansa was already the Queen of their hearts. Sansa was loved.

  
Her bannermen and the Lords of the Vale adored her. She dispensed justice, but was kind. She  
killed men, but tended to the sick herself and fed the poor. She ordered the reconstruction of her  
family castle, and the rebuilding of damaged huts. She loved and care for her smallfolk, anyone  
could see that.

  
Sansa made her way to the large chair beneath the direwolf banners. She was nervous. Petyr was  
waiting for her, standing beside her throne. He smiled at her encouragingly. He looked handsome  
in his signature black robe, but this time he wore a long green sash pinned by a mockingbird. She  
sat down and faced the crowd.

  
“My Lords, my Ladies. You have followed me into battle. You have fought for me. You have  
bled for me. You have lost sons for me. You travelled miles away from your homes, all to help me  
regain what is rightfully mine. You have my Eternal Gratitude. Together, we have freed the  
smallfolk and the North from the Bolton tyranny. Justice is dispensed through the North again.

  
Love shall fill the hearths of Northerners once again, instead of fear and cruelty.” She took a  
breath to steady herself. Her voice sounded surer than she felt.

  
“But, what of the rest of the Realm? What of the carnage and instability in the Riverlands?

  
Tommen Baratheon is no son of Robert. We all know he is the incestuous creation of Queen  
Cersei and her twin, Ser Jaime.” That statement was met with “here here’s” and cheers of  
approval. “As long as a Lannister sits on the throne, the Seven Kingdoms shall suffer. Gone are  
the days of peace and stability. The system is broken. The Targaryens are gone. The Baratheons  
are gone. By what right does a Lannister lay claim to the Iron Throne?”

  
She glanced around the room. Some were smiling. Grinning. Others were staring at her. She met  
Lady Maege’s eyes. The strong woman stared back at her, a look of approval on her face. My  
mother. My mother would be proud of me. “The Realm deserves a good ruler. A just and kind  
ruler. Someone who has been victim and seen the horrors of the current monarchy. A child of  
Westeros. Not some long lost girl who knows nothing of her country. A ruler with the right family  
name. Any fool can find themselves born into power, but how many can earn it for themselves?

  
We have grown so used to horror, that we assume there is no other way. The Seven Kingdoms  
need a strong and gentle ruler. A ruler loved, with a powerful army and the right family name.”

  
Sansa Stark, Queen of the North stood.

  
“My Lords, My Ladies. I am asking you to stand for peace. To stand for justice. To stand for love  
and kindness. I am asking you to put an end to the instability that has plagued us since the  
Targaryens first came with their dragons across the Narrow Sea. Will you back me, your Queen in  
the North as Sansa, Queen of the Seven Kingdoms?”

  
She had never spoken so many words to so many people in such a short span of time. It was not  
rehearsed but spoken from the heart. But, how many of those words were once spoken to her by  
Petyr? How much of him had taken root in her already?

  
The hall was silent. Then suddenly, it erupted in cheers. Cheers of “Queen Sansa” and “Queen of  
Westeros” filled the Hall. Lady Maege was clapping. Lord Harry was laughing. Bronze Yohn  
looked proud. Seated in a chair, Lord Redfort had tears in his eyes. Mors Umber was punching  
Ser Emery in the arm, laughing. Sansa glanced at Petyr, and beamed laughing. He nodded at her  
and winked.

  
“Just a minute.” A voice spoke over the crowd. Lord Cerwyn stepped forward. He had led the  
attack to burn the Dreadfort. “This is all very well, Queen Sansa. But, why should it be you and  
not one of us? If you’re saying the reign of the Targaryens is over, then do we not all have claims?

  
You’re no different from any of us.”

  
“Yes she is, you dumb shit!” shouted Lady Maege. “The Starks were Kings before your bloody  
house even existed.” Sounds of approval came from other Northern Lords, who were eyeing him  
as if he were a traitor.

  
He stepped back nervously. “You forget, the Boltons and Umbers were once kings too. The  
Karstarks still roam and descend from the Starks. You may have the North and the Vale behind  
you, Queen Sansa. But, what about the rest of the Realm?

  
Petyr Baelish stepped forward. “The North. The Vale. The Riverlands. The Reach. The  
Crownlands are hers for the taking. What’s left? The Iron Islands and Dorne?”

  
“What are you going on about, Baelish? The Riverlands are a mess. And what of the Reach?”

  
“Perhaps, they are unstable, Lord Cerywn. But, I am their overlord and they will bend the knee to  
my Queen or fall. The Tully’s managed to gather them to Robb Stark, they will gather for Sansa  
Stark. And Lady Olenna wants Cersei’s head on a spike. She will back Lady Sansa as Queen.”

  
He held up a parchment with the melted wax rose of House Tyrell. He passed it to Ser Lyn  
Corbroy, who read it quickly then passed it around. The crowd began to murmur.

  
“Did you not hear what I said, Lord Cerwyn? Any fool can find themselves born into power, but  
how many can earn it for themselves? I gathered an army to help me claim my birth right. Could  
you have done the same? If Castle Cerwyn fell, how many lords would defend you? Your  
overlord would. House Stark would raise the North to fight for you. You would do well to  
remember that.” Lord Cerwyn backed away. Sansa’s eyes shone. “Anyone else have a problem?”

  
“Lord Karstark still roams the North. He will not bend the knee, my Queen,” said Lord Manderly.

  
“Then he shall meet the same fate as his brother, along with every member of his family until one  
does.” Sansa raised her eyebrow, challenging them. No one said anything else. Lord Harry came  
forward and knelt.

  
“Queen Sansa. I was the first to support you on your mission to retake Winterfell and the North as  
your birthright. Let me be the first to swear my fidelity to you as future Queen of the Seven  
Kingdoms.” He bowed deeply. Sansa smiled. Other Lords and Ladies came forward, bending the  
knee and kissing her hand. She felt powerful. But, power resides where men believe it resides.

  
Right now, she had them where she wanted them, but how long would it last? And who really  
held the power here? Was it her? The girl with the right family name. Or was it the cunning man  
who stood to her side? The one who rose from nothing. And what would happen when she  
declared him as her King? Would her Lords be so eager to have Littlefinger as their King?

  
A commotion was heard from the back of the Hall. The large oak doors swung open. A guard  
was shouting, but a man strode forward unperturbed. Sansa felt her heart stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhhh have two chapters! I got so much out of me this weekend plus a second short  
> fic--everyone deserves a treat!  
> ALL HAIL HER GRACE QUEEN SANSA OF HOUSE STARK, FIRST OF  
> HER NAME, QUEEN OF THE ANDALS AND THE FIRST MEN, LADY OF  
> THE SEVEN KINGDOMS AND PROTECTOR OF THE REALM.


	29. Warrior

Men turned around, hands on their sword belts. He pushed them aside, and many turned to stare at  
him in fear. He approached the Queen, and Lord Baelish stepped forward.

  
The man stared at Baelish long and hard. He looked past him at Sansa. He wore black robes and a  
long black cape. Black unruly curls and a slight beard. She looked at his eyes. They were the  
wrong colour. Not grey, but a deep and unsettling blue.

  
Sansa stood uncertainly, the fear evident in her voice. “Jon?”

  
Petyr glanced back at her, and then at Jon and narrowed his eyes. It was him. He looked older.  
Almost the same as when she last saw him, but the eyes bothered her. Jon stepped past Baelish  
and met her on the steps. He reached out his hand, she took it and he pulled her into an embrace.  
This is wrong. He was cold as ice. She pulled back slowly, and looked into his eyes. His clothes  
were old, and she could see rips and tears. “What happened to you?”

  
Jon pulled back from her. “There’s no time.” He turned to face the crowd of nobles, who were  
murmuring. “My name is Jon Snow, I am Ned Stark’s son. I grew up in these very walls, played  
with Ned Stark’s sons and daughters, but I am no Stark. I was Lord Commander of the Night’s  
Watch, but my own men stabbed me for letting the wildings reach beyond the Wall.” He turned to  
face Sansa. “I ask you sister, will you do the same?”

  
Sansa frowned. Why would he think she would? She had never been close with Jon, but she had  
loved him all the same. He had asked her for advice about how to speak to girls because Robb  
was teasing him about his shyness. He loved Arya and Robb the most. But to say Sansa would  
stab him like his own men was going too far. She started to speak, but he faced the gathered  
nobles once more.

  
“Because the wars of the Seven Kingdoms no longer matter. The Long Night is coming, and the  
dead come with it. We grew up in the North, we heard the tales of the White Walkers. The  
Night’s Watch was put in place to defend the Kingdom from the threat from beyond. The Wall  
won’t be enough this time. This is about men uniting together. My sister has already united you  
under her. You will go and fight for her war in the lands beyond the North. But, what if I tell you  
this war is all that matters? This isn’t about gold or glory. Your titles or what riches she could  
bestow on you. This is about survival. Because if they cross the Wall, there will be none of us  
left.”

  
Lord Harry laughed. Bad mistake, Sansa thought. He stepped forward, his blond hair shining in  
the torch light. “You would have us believe in tales for children, Lord Snow?” He laughed loudly.  
Sansa wished she could slap him. “If you need more men for your Watch, simply ask the Queen’s  
favour and she will give them to you.”

  
Jon glared at him. Sansa wondered how anyone could dare look at the icy blue eyes for long.  
“You’re not from the North, are you?”

  
Harry smiled. “I’m Lord of the Vale and Warden of the East, Lord Snow.” His tone was mocking.

  
Harry had always been too proud, his glory in battle and good position with the Queen only  
bolstered his arrogance.

  
“Well, if you can fit your whole kingdom up in that high castle of yours, I suggest you run for it  
now. Because they’re coming. And I have what it takes to stop them.” He threw the bag he was  
carrying on his shoulder on the ground. Pointed beams of glass scattered out. They glowed in the  
light. “Dragon glass. A Brother killed a Walker with this. It shatters their icy bodies. And this.” He  
unsheathed his large sword and held it up. “Many of you will have valryian steel as ancestral  
tokens passed on for generations. They are forged from dragon fire. They can beat them. Fire  
against ice.”

  
Lady Maege stepped forward, sizing up the Lord Commander. She looked every bit like a shebear.

  
“That was my brother’s sword. Long Claw is the ancestral sword of the Mormonts of Bear  
Island.”

  
Jon’s face was serious and solemn. “I knew your brother well, Lady Mormont. He spoke of you.

  
We shall never see his like again.” Lady Maege nodded and stepped away. No one knew the  
North like Lady Maege and Lord Mors, they would be on his side, Sansa realized. Petyr and her  
had remained quiet. She wondered why her Hand had not spoken, as if he was processing all this  
new information.

  
Lord Locke stepped forward. “Listen, Lord Commander. Why don’t we just go south with Queen  
Sansa? It’s always summer in King’s Landing and the Crownlands. Why stay here if the North is  
lost?”

  
“Are you an idiot? Or a coward? The North is our home. Our blood is of the First Men, they built  
the Wall to prevent the Walkers from ever breaching it. A threat comes and you run? I say we  
fight!” Lord Mors shouted. Cheers of approval came from the men of House Umber.

  
“I will not stand here and lose my men to a fool’s war. The Lords of the Vale will leave!” Lord  
Harry was not impressed. Sansa saw Ser Lyn and Bronze Yohn shaking their heads. They had  
seen her practice in the rituals of the North, and tolerated it. But, to speak of magic was beyond  
their understanding.

  
“Go home, you southerner! This is the North!” boomed Lady Maege.

  
Petyr raised his hand at last. “Silence, all of you! We march for Harrenhal to free the Seven  
Kingdoms. Any man who wishes to join Lord Commander Snow may do so.”

  
Jon turned to Sansa and glared at her, seemingly upset that she let someone else speak for her. In  
the North, they were no Hands. Only loyal bannermen following a King. The Lord Hand and the  
appointed council members were a tradition of the Andals. Jon turned his icy gaze back to Petyr.

  
“Did you not just hear what I said? There will be no homes to go to. I have wildings on my side.

  
My sister is a Stark. Her place is in the North.” He turned to Sansa. “Robb was King in the North  
too. You’ve gone and made yourself Queen, isn’t it enough?” It would have been, once.

  
All eyes were on Sansa. She felt uncomfortable beneath the gaze of his unnatural eyes. She licked  
her lips and spoke, sealing her fate. “No, Jon. I am a Stark, but I am a Tully as well. I belong to  
both the North and the South. You do not know the horrors I suffered at the hands of the  
Lannisters. I will have my revenge and bring peace to the Seven Kingdoms. Your war is real. But,  
I will take no part in it. You may take any man or woman who wishes to join you.”

  
Jon stared at her in disbelief, then turned to Baelish. He eyed him up and down, and Petyr gave  
him a cold, stony look. “Who are you? What word are you whispering in my sister’s ears?”

  
Petyr smirked. “I am the Queen’s Hand, Lord Snow. Her loyal advisor.” There was a battle of  
intense staring, and Sansa felt the tension in the air. Suddenly, Jon grabbed Petyr by the neck and  
began to squeeze tightly. Sansa screamed and leapt up trying to separate them. There was a  
commotion and shouting as her guards and knights sprung forward. But, Jon’s strength was  
unnatural. Lord Mors managed to free Lord Baelish and he fell backwards. It was a disaster. Lady  
Maege and Lord Mors were yelling at the other Northerners. Jon and Harry were having a go at  
each other. Petyr lay gasping for air on the steps, as Sansa sat over him rubbing his face and  
shouting for the maester. This could not have gotten any worse, she thought.

  
“Lady Sansa!” A female voice came from the back of the Hall. All eyes turned towards the back.  
A tall woman with pale white skin and flaming red hair was approaching, and the flames on the  
wall scones seemed to flicker as she swept into the Hall. She wore red robes and walked towards  
Jon Snow. A knight spit on the ground before her, but she passed without a care in the world. She  
was staring at Sansa.

  
“You think your war matters, Lady Stark? I stood with Stannis Baratheon when he claimed the  
Iron Throne. The Lord of Light will not bless this war for the crown. The real war is here in the  
North.” So, this was Stannis’ fire priestess? The one who burned the young girl alive. Why was  
she with Jon?

  
“What Lord of Light? I follow the old gods!” boomed Mors Umber. Grunts and shouts came from  
bannermen, as Sansa cradled Petyr’s head on her lap.

  
This is the North. Sansa felt herself stand, and angrily strode over to face the Red Woman. “The  
Lord of Light? It was the old gods who allowed Jon to be reborn.” She could feel her face heating  
up, and pointed to her chest. “I spilled the blood of Theon Greyjoy. The blood of a King to allow  
Jon to be reborn. Theon died, so Jon could live! How can you stand by this woman when Bran is  
the one who brought you back to life?” She glared at Jon in disbelief and he met her stare. How  
had this happily anticipated reunion gone so wrong?

  
“Lady Stark, it was through Rhollor’s power that your brother was reborn as the legendary great  
warrior.” The Red Woman wore a smirk on her lips. Sansa realized she felt a mixture of hate and  
fear for her.

  
She turned back to Jon, her eyes pleading. Surely, he still believed in the old gods of their father  
and had not fallen into this woman’s trap? “You’re a warg, Jon. When you died, your soul went  
into Ghost and that is where Bran found you. I speak to Bran too. He told me to bring Theon to  
the godswood. How can you deny your roots?”

  
Jon pulled his lips into a straight line. “The old gods provided the blood, sister. But, Melisandre’s  
god raised me to life. The gods have many faces.”

  
“Our way is the old way, Jon. The Starks have been the keepers of the North for centuries. Our  
own brother is a greenseer. How can you deny them?”

  
There was a pause. Then a young man standing behind Sansa pushed her down and sprang  
forward. Sansa cried out in surprise and fell backwards, but was caught by Alys Maege. The  
young man ran to Jon and pulled Long Claw out, plunging it into the Red Woman’s chest. The  
sword glowed red and Jon pushed the man away, trying to take the sword out of the woman’s  
chest. Her head fell backwards and Sansa heard a laugh escape her lips. Jon tried the sword again,  
and suddenly it began glowing red. A burst of light filled the room. And Sansa watched in  
amazement as Jon’s ice-blue eyes turned red. The light stopped. And Jon remained. He seemed to  
have a heat radiating from him that filled the room. Azor Ahai, she realized. The Red Woman for  
all she was worth had been his Nissa Nissa.

  
There were gasps around the room. The Red Woman, for all her worth had faded into dust,  
burned by the fires she loved so much. Jon stood strong, a fire burning within him and raised the  
shining blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL so clearly I'm one of those who thinks Jon is Azor Ahai :3  
> Just a reminder that incorporating Jon into my story is necessary bc Sansa cannot take  
> the Seven Kingdoms with the threat of the WW, so big bro will take care of that.  
> Meanwhile, she will go south after 2-3 chapters. Just keeping things in perspective :)


	30. Farewell

Jon Snow, Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch raised his blade of fire into the air. Sansa held  
tightly to Alys Mormont in fear. The female warrior stared back in wonderment. The young man  
lay on the floor, staring up at Jon. Sansa blinked her eyes a few times, scarcely believing what had  
just happened. Reality sunk in. A man had stabbed the Red Woman with Jon’s sword and it had  
caused him to turn from ice to fire. The man. Sansa ordered her guards to arrest him. The  
unknown vagrant did not struggle and was dragged away, staring back at Jon in wonderment.

  
If the ice-blue had bothered her, the red glow in Jon’s eyes was much worse. Sansa cringed. Bran,  
where are you? she called into the shadows of her mind, but no response came.

  
Petyr had caught his breath and sat up on the steps, his mouth set in a stern line. He looked  
directly at Sansa and inclined his head towards the door. She shook her head. She felt fear. Jon  
was otherworldly. Would he harm her now? Had he lost all memories of who he was? If he was  
reborn before, he was the legendary hero now. Did he even remember who she was?

  
Sansa stood up slowly. She approached Jon with caution, her arm reaching out. Jon saw her, and  
sheathed his sword. The sharp brightness left the room. Sansa exhaled in relief. Jon reached out  
and hugged her tightly. “Do not be afraid, Sansa. I would never harm you.” She hugged him  
closer. He would harm Petyr though.

  
In her brother’s arms, Sansa spoke. “Jon, you may take any man or woman in this room who  
wishes to fight for you. But, I am Queen now. I will support you in this war in whatever way I  
can. The men can give up their swords for you. But, my place is on the Iron Throne. The Seven  
Kingdoms are bleeding.” Her eyes pleaded with him. “You must understand.”

  
Lady Maege and her two daughters step forward. “Your Grace, House Mormont has been loyal to  
House Stark since the age of the First Men. We will go wherever you tell us to, but allow my  
house to honour the North and fight against the Others.”

  
Sansa pulled back from Jon, and smiled at Lady Maege. “My lady, you have been a true friend  
and a loyal supporter to me. You and your men may serve my brother.” She turned towards the  
crowd. “If any man wishes to join the Lord Commander against the White Walkers, step  
forward.”

  
Lord Flint stepped forward. “The mountain clans are yours, Lord Commander. But House Flint of  
Flint Tower will join their Queen in the south.”

  
Sansa smiled at each of them. A few knights of the Vale stepped forward and pledged their  
allegiance to Queen Sansa and their sword to Jon Snow. Lord Harry’s face told a different story.  
He was not impressed. She would have to smooth this over with him later.

  
Lord Cerwyn was scowling. “Brother, Lord Cerwyn will lend you his support. Although half his  
army will go south with me.” The lord had the insolence to begin to object, but Sansa’s cool gaze  
quieted him.

  
Jon seemed satisfied and turned to her, hand touching her cheek. “Thank you, sister. We will  
leave immediately. I would have a moment alone before we depart.” Sansa nodded and dismissed  
the Lords, she glanced at Harry and gave him a knowing look, suggesting they would discuss this  
later. He nodded, and moved towards the steps, pulling Petyr up. Petyr scowled at Jon, but did not  
approach the two siblings.

  
“Harry, would you take Lord Baelish to the maester? I will come and tend to him myself soon. I  
am merely wishing my brother farewell.” She gave Petyr a look she hoped he would interpret as  
an apology and a plea. They walked off, and the doors of the Great Hall closed shut. Sansa and  
Jon stood alone. They moved towards a table and sat down, across from each other. Sansa poured  
herself a flagon of wine, and took a sip steadying herself.

  
“I know you are angry with me, Sansa. I did not come here to disrupt your plans, but there are  
things you do not know. If we fail and the winter comes to the south, you need to flee. Take a ship  
to Pentos and get as far inland as possible. Find Daenarys Targaryen and her dragons. They might  
be our last hope to defeat the Walkers.”

  
Sansa clasped her hand around Jon’s and squeezed. “You won’t fail. You are the stuff of legend.  
And Daenarys… the stories are months old. She could be dead for all we know and she only had  
three dragons…” She almost told him that he was as much as Targaryen as she was, but held  
back. “Bran will help you, I know he will. I have seen things these past few months in the North I  
could scarcely believe. Trust Bran, Jon.”

  
Jon smiled solemnly. “And Arya…Rickon…have you not found them?”

  
Sansa leaned back, smoothing her skirts. “Lord Baelish saw Arya at Harrenhal, disguised as a boy  
about a year ago. No one can find her now. She’s disappeared but he’s convinced that she’s alive.

  
And Rickon… Lord Manderly sent a man to find him. He is supposedly on the island of Skaagos.

  
I have not heard word.”

  
Jon’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this Lord Baelish and why do you trust him so much?”

  
She thought for a moment, then collected her thoughts. He was her flesh, her kin. “Lord Baelish  
was Master of Coin to King Robert. He took an interest in me, and promised to return me home.

  
He fulfilled his promise, you see. It is with his help that I have achieved all this.”

  
Jon seemed lost in thought for a moment. His eyes seemed very far away.“Does he love you?”

  
Sansa bit her lip. What would Jon know of love? But, then so much had changed in the years  
since she had last seen him. “Yes…he does. And I love him.”

  
Jon thought for a moment. “I loved someone too, would you believe it? A wildling woman. Her  
name was Ygritte. She was fierce.” He paused for a moment, lost in memories.

  
“I am still married to Tyrion Lannister.” Jon stared at her, then burst out laughing. Sansa could not  
help but join him. The thought had once horrified her, but in truth Tyrion was a happy memory in  
a land filled with chaos.

  
“The Imp? My, that’s not a match I’d ever see fit for you.” He squeezed her hand again. Sansa  
could not get over how hot his skin felt. Even being in his presence was causing her to sweat.

  
Would he melt the winter away?

  
“No, but Lord Tyrion was kind and gentle. He treated me with respect. The same could not be  
said for the rest of the Lannisters. But, I did not love him.”

  
“He was a good man. Funny. He journeyed with me to the Wall, if you recall? I cannot see him  
ever hurting you. But, this Lord Baelish…he seems a bit…cold.”

  
“We’ve both had different paths, Jon. I suffered greatly under in the hands of King Joffrey. Did  
you know he wanted to serve me Robb’s head at his wedding feast?” Jon cringed at that. “Petyr  
poisoned him and helped me escape. And here we stand.”

  
Jon thought for a moment. “You were married to the Imp under the Seven. You could marry Petyr  
in the North by the old gods.” Sansa had never really considered marrying Petyr so soon. It would  
seem like the right time with her brother here to give her away. But no, her Lords had seen too  
much for one day. She would not tell Jon about his other side, Littlefinger. And how she wasn’t  
sure how the Lords would react when she announced her love for him. No, Petyr would wait.

  
Sansa smiled. “Now is not the time, brother. There is something I should tell you. I want to  
legitimize you as Jon Stark. As my heir to Winterfell, the North and the Seven Kingdoms when I  
conquer it, until I have a child.” Jon sat back surprised but seemed to consider it.

  
“I was Robb’s heir when it should have been you. King Stannis offered me the same. But, I was  
Lord Commander then. I have broken many vows and the Night’s Watch did not honour them. I  
have already died, Sansa. I am a different Jon now, so why not be a Stark? I accept.” He smiled  
and rounded the table to embrace her. She held him close. This might be the last time she saw him.

  
Either of them could die, perhaps both.

  
“I will write the decree now. Take what you need, brother. I wish you best of luck in your war.

  
When it is over, I expect to see you in King’s Landing as Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the  
North.” He smiled back at her and moved towards the doors. He stopped and looked around the  
room, seemingly lost in thought. Winterfell held many ghosts and memories, she hoped he would  
take some pleasant ones with him.

  
“Sansa?” She broke out of her thoughts. “Who was that man? The one who killed Melisandre?”

  
Sansa had forgotten all about him. She tried to remember the face, but could not seem to place  
him. Perhaps, he was a servant. “He’s been sent to the dungeons. I shall question him later.”

  
“No, let’s go together. How did he know to use the sword to forge it anew?”

  
She shrugged. “I suppose it was just luck. A lot of people hated the Red Priestess. Perhaps one of  
his own was sacrificed to her fire god.” They walked towards the dungeon together.

  


***

  
The cell was opened, and Jon and Sansa stepped inside. The man was leaning against the wall,  
sitting cross-legged and a smile upon his lips.

  
“Why did you kill the Red Woman?” Sansa asked, authority in her voice.

  
“She was on my list.” The man shrugged and eyed them.

  
Sansa raised her eyebrows in question. “What list?”

  
“The one I used to recite every night before I slept. Many of them died by the hand of others and  
stole my revenge. Some I did myself.” A killer? Perhaps Theon was wrong and the girl he had  
seen the day Ramsay died was not a girl, but this man. His hair was blonde and in his tortured  
state Theon could have mistaken the small man for a girl.

  
She glanced at Jon, and he was staring at the man intently, his fingers gliding over his beard.

  
“What does the Queen of the North do to murderers?”

  
Sansa frowned. “Murder is a crime before the old gods and the new. They are executed.”

  
Jon looked at his sister. “Now is not the time to spend lives so easily. Let this man come with me  
to the Night’s Watch. He claims to be useful with a sword, we may need him in the fight against  
the Others.”

  
A look passed between the small man and Jon for a slight second, and Sansa almost missed it.  
But, she had trained herself to read facial expressions long ago. Still, the small man acted as if he  
did not seem relieved to have his life spared. He simply shrugged his shoulders, but Sansa swore  
she saw a small smile lingering at the corners of his mouth.

  
Jon began walking away from the cell. Sansa looked back at the small man. “Your name, ser?”

  
The small man smirked slightly. “Jory, m’lady.”

  
“A fine name.” Sansa followed her brother out of the dungeons and into the main courtyard. Men  
were being gathered. Swords being sharpened. Horses being saddled. She would lose two  
thousand men, but had gained a brother.

  
Jon looked around and smiled sadly. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell. If I live sister, I  
will come back and reign as Lord of Winterfell, this I promise you.”

  
Sansa smiled sadly. “In two years, our wars may be over. The world changed. But, Winterfell will  
always stand. I know that in my heart.”

  
Jon leaned against the stone, a smile upon his lips. He seemed to be such a solemn creature and  
smiled so rarely. “You were such a little lady, so gentle and sweet. You were always meant to be  
Queen, Sansa. But, I never thought you would go back to your roots and conquer it all for  
yourself. It was not what Father would have wanted…or Lady Catelyn…but I just want you to  
know, at least one Stark is proud of you.”

  
Sansa felt tears spring to her eyes. Robb was gone. Father. Mother. And the sibling she had once  
liked the least now supported her the most. She embraced him tightly and felt Jon sigh against her.

  
He stepped back and they assessed each other. “May the old gods watch over you, Jon. I hope this  
is not the last time we see each other.” He patted her back, and they moved over towards the  
mounts.

  
He mounted his horse and looked at the men gathered. The prisoners were brought out, and Jon  
ordered they be unshackled, reminding them they were now men of the Night’s Watch. Sansa  
watched as he shouted orders and saw her brother was an excellent commander. Satisfied, he  
ordered they move out with Lord Flint and his sons. Lord Cerywn sulking behind.

  
Lady Maege came forward and embraced Sansa tightly. “It was an honour to know you and your  
brother, Queen of Winter. And now to serve another Stark. You have strength, my Queen. Never  
forget that. You are the North.” She squeezed Sansa’s hand and moved away. Sansa would miss  
the fierce warrior and her daughters, and all the strength of the North they imparted to her.

  
Jon sat on his mount and looked down at his sister. Sansa smiled. “Farewell, Lord Stark.” Jon’s  
usually solemn expression changed, and he beamed.

  
“I wish you best of luck, Queen Sansa.” She blew him a kiss and he departed. She watched his  
back, which grew smaller and smaller until it disappeared.

  
“Queen Sansa!”

  
Sansa turned and the small blonde man was behind her, trailing behind the last of the men to leave  
Winterfell.

  
“You can leave now, Jory. You’re a free man.”

  
The man watched her, and Sansa felt uncomfortable. “I am glad we met. I promise to be loyal to  
Lord Snow.”

  
“He’s Lord Stark now, Jory. My heir.” The man’s face lightened, and Sansa could not place why  
a servant would be so happy she had legitimized her brother.

  
“You have changed in so many ways. You will make a wonderful Queen, I know that now.” The  
man’s eyes lingered on her, then he gave her a small bow and moved away.

  
Sansa was not sure what made her say it but she said it all the same, calling out to his retreating  
back. “Your name isn’t Jory!”

  
The man turned, half a smile on his lips. His eyes flashing. “No, it is not. I am no one.” He turned  
and walked away, but Sansa swore she heard a sound pass from his lips. Words Lord Tyrion had  
once told her. Valar Morghulis. All men must die.

  
Sansa shook the thought away. It did not matter. It was time to move forward. Rickon had not yet  
been found, but she would leave Winterfell in the capable hands of Lord Manderly, who would  
govern him if he returned. She had found two brothers, and her heart was full of joy. She was  
done with the North. Her work here was done.

  
And a certain lord needed to be checked upon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys knew that Arya was lurking around all along? ;)  
> I wanted so much for Sansa and Arya to meet again, but I knew that they would have  
> separate journeys. Jon and Arya were always so close, and so in their journey (which  
> I will not write), Arya will reveal herself to Jon.  
> It's nice because Arya made her peace with Sansa and wishes her well. There's a hint  
> of sadness because Sansa cannot pick up on the clues and uneasiness she feels  
> whenever she is around Arya's faceless personas, but how could she know it is her  
> sister?  
> Sansa will be permanently united with Bran through the weirwoods, but I can tell you  
> that will be the only sibling. In the final chapters, I may change that but that remains  
> to be seen.  
> SO, WE ARE OUT OF WINTERFELL AND MOVING TOWARDS MORE  
> CONQUESTS. I've been doing tons of reading and research this weekend on the  
> Riverlands, so there may not be an update til Friday, as I have lots to figure out :)  
> Let me know your thoughts and anything you would like to see in upcoming chapters  
> :D  
> ALSO, was going through my work and totally skipped a chapter, so Chapter 12 was  
> updated to include the missing chapter if you want to go back and have a look :)


	31. Crossing

Lord Petyr Baelish stood directly across from the old, spindly Lord of the Crossing. His ever  
present smirk was wide upon his face, as he sized up Lord Walder Frey. He had not seen the man  
for nearly twenty years, the last time he came to the Twins with Hoster Tully and his daughters.

  
He had aged significantly. He was nearly bald, although a few spots of scraggly long hair still  
stood in patches. His skin was sagging and hanging loose on his skin. Petyr could see the veins  
beneath his paper thin skin even from the distance he stood. But, the old man’s beady eyes were  
watching him gleefully. His mind was still sharp. Lord Walder was sneering down at him.

  
“Littlefinger…I never liked you. Brandon Stark should have finished you off. Instead, you’ve  
gone and made yourself a great lord. Probably better. You still look as if you couldn’t lift a  
sword.” He sniggered and his progeny laughed with him. Petyr ignored the slight. “Why are you  
here?”

  
Petyr spread his arms in mock submission and moved closer. “While your evident dislike of me  
greatly saddens me Lord Walder, I did not come here to win your love. In case you do not care to  
remember, I am your Lord Paramount now. I simply came to collect the taxes owed by my  
bannerman.”

  
Lord Walder snickered. “Finally claiming that dump you call Harrenhal, are you? Do you think  
I’m an idiot, Baelish? You’re coming from the North, not the South. Roose Bolton is dead. For all  
I know, you could be after my head.”

  
Petyr’s eyes flickered with mischief. He was playing Lord Walder for the fool that he truly was.  
He had very carefully spread the rumour to various river lords that Stannis Baratheon had defeated  
the Boltons and now held the North. The same letter he sent to Queen Cersei, who he learned had  
been freed from her arrest by the High Sparrow, and was going on a blood hunt. If the rumours  
were to be believed, she was turning into the Mother of Madness. Princess Myrcella was dead.

  
Cersei had closed off all entry into King’s Landing and lost all interest in the outside world.

  
Evidently, she thought she could protect her last remaining son from the outside world. But,  
Cersei was another matter. As far as anyone in the Realm knew, it was Stannis Baratheon who  
defeated the Boltons. The two hundred or so men who escorted him into the Twins were carrying  
his banner, the silver mockingbird on a green field. The North was as mysterious as it was  
isolated. No one in the South could really be sure what happened there.

  
“My condolences, Lord Walder. I had heard you and Lord Bolton had become rather close.

  
However, I too had dealings with him. I was in the North to deliver him a… certain package.

  
Luckily, I was fortunate enough to depart before the winter storms blew in Stannis Baratheon.”

  
Lord Walder called over one of his sons, and whispered in his ear. Petyr remained standing. “I  
believe the common courtesy is to offer your liege lord a chair to sit upon, at the very least.”

  
“Don’t try to mock me with your fancy words, Littlefinger. Here.” He threw a piece of parchment.

  
It landed beside Petyr’s foot, and he pointedly bent to pick it up. It bore the seal of House  
Karstark. Petyr read over it briefly, his face never betraying his true feelings. He passed it to the  
nearest Frey to his left.

  
“A silly rumour. The Northerners are a strange people. They believe what they want to believe.

  
Sansa Stark has not been seen since King Joffrey’s wedding. Her brothers are dead.” He waved  
his hand in dismissal. “Stannis Baratheon holds Winterfell, as I just told you. And he will march  
south to take what he claims is his by right. Tell me, Lord Walder? Is the Crossing strong enough  
to hold against twenty-thousand Northmen, when Winterfell could not?”

  
He saw it. There was fear in the old man’s eyes. He did not speak, but kept his beady eyes fixated  
on Lord Baelish, calculating. Petyr turned and faced ten-score of kin the old man had bred.

  
“Riverrun is also a fortress and a stronghold. Yet, even they knew to surrender to Jaime Lannister.

  
It is wise for the Twins to do the same.”

  
“Is that what you are, Littlefinger? A coward? I should be Lord Paramount of the Trident. You’re  
from the Vale, if even that. You’re a foreigner in a land you scarcely know. The Crossing has  
stood for centuries.”

  
“I wouldn’t question my abilities, Lord Walder. I have been a minor lord once, but House Baelish  
has grown in power and strength. If you think you are wiser than me, then by all means stay and  
fight. I am merely doing my duty by telling you to evacuate while there is still time. But, I know  
something you do not. Stannis Baratheon burned down the Dreadfort. He has wildfire.” He  
paused to let the words sink in. Murmuring started amongst Frey’s children. “I am gathering all  
the riverlords at Harrenhal, and from there we will mount our attack against Stannis Baratheon in  
the name of King Tommen.” He raised an eyebrow. Lord Walder did not move a muscle. Petyr  
turned on his heel, moving away.

  
“I’ll expect the taxes in a fortnight, Lord Walder. I’ll be taking my leave now.” Petyr reached the  
archway leading to the inner corridor, when the old man’s snivelling voice sounded.

  
“Fine, Lord Baelish. Have it your way.”

  
Lord Frey never saw the wide grin on Petyr’s face.

  


***

  
Sansa Stark, Queen in the North, watched on as a train of Freys came out of the Twins. She  
watched on as the Northmen disguised as Petyr’s bannermen turned on them. She watched on as  
their cries and screams filled the air, but the Queen did not flinch. She seemed impassive as the  
sons and daughters of Frey were butchered. In her mind, she was replaying the events of the night  
her mother and brother were murdered. The Red Wedding, they called it. The screams she heard  
were not of the Freys, but of Robb. Her mother. Grey Wind. The screams made her blood boil  
and her heart grow heavy, but she did not flinch.

  
A mockingbird banner was approaching, and Ser Emery threw a frail, white-haired man before  
her. The man cowered in fear. Sansa Stark walked towards him. The air was warmer at the  
Crossing. The scent of the moist ground mixing with the mist from the rivers. There was a hint of  
iron and rust. Blood. He slowly raised his eyes to meet steel blue. Ice.

  
“He tricked me! That cunning bastard! He tricked me!” His eyes held a mixture of fear and  
contempt.

  
The Queen cocked her head. “A man who does not honour the guest right does not have the  
honour of knowing the truth.”

  
He licked his lips nervously. “So, it’s true then. You have returned.”

  
She brushed an auburn curl behind her ear. “The North Remembers, Lord Frey. You murdered  
my mother and brother. You conspired against your King.”

  
Lord Walder laughed bitterly. “I have lived for ninety-four years. I hosted three kings in my  
lifetime. I have sired over a hundred children. I have seen monarchs rise and fall. You will be no  
different. House Frey will not be crushed into the mud.”

  
The Queen smirked. “Yes, it will.” Her voice held a sing-song tone. “Just like House Bolton. Do  
you know what I did to Roose Bolton, Lord Walder? I made him watch as I took away everything  
he loved right before his eyes. Then I slit his throat myself and threw his body to the wolves. Do  
you see that?” She pointed to the field stained a crimson red. The old man shook beneath the  
hands that held him. “House Frey is being crushed into nothing before your very eyes. It’s a pity I  
can’t execute them in front of you one by one. That’s the only service you did yourself by  
fathering too many children. Kneel, my lord.”

  
The old man was visibly shaking, but he was already kneeling. Forced into a cowering position.

  
Sansa looked down on him. “There are no wolves here. And no godswood so the blood of my  
enemies could soak into the roots of the weirwood. Pity…” She turned away and walked back to  
her white mount. She hoisted herself on the saddle, and arranged her skirts. He stared at her, fear  
and hatred filling his features. Oh my enemy, do I terrify?

  
The North Remembers. “Kill him.”

  
No sound filled the land, as Walder Frey’s head bounced against the ground. But, Sansa swore the  
air felt a little cleaner. A little lighter. No sound except the roar of the river and the accelerated  
beating of Sansa’s heart as she spied her cunning mockingbird across the field. The revenge you  
seek will be yours, sweetling. Do you believe me?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK GUYS, so I have a question for you:  
> My last year of my undergrad starts in 3 weeks and I'm also working part time and  
> have 2 placements. So, would you rather have me finish the story in the next month  
> or so and provide less emotionally rich but more event based chapters, or would you  
> rather have me continue on, but once September rolls around--I'll probably update 3x  
> a month :/  
> I would still take fic requests but they'd be much shorter fics and not a giant plot like  
> this.  
> Let me know what you guys want :)


	32. A Bandied Word

Sansa braided her long auburn hair as her horse moved in a slow canter. The air was damp and  
heavy with moisture. The riverlands were beautiful. Full of lush greenery, streams and flowers.

  
But, she had only ever known winter and summer. Spring was a completely new sensation upon  
her skin. She felt a desire to dance around the hills singing songs and braid flowers in her hair. She  
recalled her favourite song of Jonquil and Florian. In her mind, as they passed the lush valleys, she  
saw glimpses of the two lovers dancing around trees. She smiled.

  
She felt strange. Only hours ago, Sansa had ordered a massacre and yet here she was daydreaming  
about songs of love. Was she mad? No. Her heart felt lighter. She had killed her enemies. The  
people who murdered and betrayed her family. She felt the heavy burden she had carried for years  
being lifted off her back. In her mind, Robb and Lady Catelyn were free. She did not feel them  
any longer as the horse carried her forward. Justice had been carried out. Her family avenged.

  
Except Cersei. But, she too would meet justice. Sansa recalled an old song. Beware. Beware. Out  
of the ash, I rise with my red hair. And I eat men like air. How fitting. Sansa laughed out loud.

  
She clasped her hand over her mouth, not wanting to appear mad.

  
Lord Baelish, riding slightly ahead of her, turned his head slightly. Sansa stared ahead, trying to  
keep a straight face. He slowed his horse, and rode beside her. Sansa’s eyes flashed with  
amusement. Petyr gave her a small wink. “Something amusing, sweetling?”

  
Oh, she could kiss him right now. Petyr’s plan of cunning and deceit was an excellent notion. One  
that did not sit well with her lords, as it made them no different than the Freys to defeat others with  
trickery. But, Petyr assured them that they would not spill blood in the castle but lead the Freys  
outside. He always had a plan hidden in the shadows.

  
“It’s an amusing day, my lord. The gods have smiled upon us.” She winked back at him.  
He bit his lip seductively, and Sansa felt a rush of desire. They would have to find time for each  
other in Seagard.

  


***

  
The portcullis had not been raised. A single archer stood atop the battlements of castle Seagard,  
his bow pulled taunt and aiming. Sansa supposed it was rather odd for a high lord to appear  
unannounced, let alone with nearly twenty-thousand soldiers accompanying him. But, Lord  
Redfort assured her Lord Mallister was a loyal bannermen to Robb, and Sansa could expect him  
to do the same for her. She could hear the roar of the ocean from where she stood. The lush greens  
had given way to greys and blues, and Sansa was reminded of her brief stay in Gulltown. The  
whitewashed walls of the castle stood tall and strong, the red shingles shining in the light. She  
remembered how the Crossing and Seagard had been saved from the vestiges of warfare.

  
The archer’s voice quivered. “Why did you not send notice you were coming Lord Baelish? And  
why such a large host?”

  
Petyr stood at the front of the crowd, his hands raised in defeat. “These are matters to be discussed  
with Lord Jason, I’m afraid. If you would be so kind to send him out.”

  
Sansa stood towards the back, flanked by Lord Redfort and Lord Mors, her flaming auburn hair  
hidden beneath her hood. She toyed with a ring on her finger. Until they knew who their allies  
were and who they could trust, it was best for Lord Baelish to handle dealing with the high lords.

  
Although many of the river lords had been loyal to the Northern cause, they feared many would  
prefer the peace and stability Jaime Lannister had brought upon them. The truth was, they knew  
very little of what had transpired in the riverlands since they travelled North. Lord Redfort had  
assured her Lord Mallister was a good place to start, as his castle was the closest from the Twins,  
and due to his former loyalty.

  
Lord Mors shifted on his horse, blowing out hot air. “By the gods, we’ll spend half the day here if  
it were left to Littlefinger.”

  
Sansa pursed her lips slightly. “The Lord Hand has a mind for diplomacy. As it is, he is their Lord  
Paramount.”

  
“The Tullys were the holder of that title for generations, my Queen. Don’t forget many will not  
accept Lord Baelish as their liege lord,” put in Lord Redfort.

  
“They are more than willing to accept Tully blood, my lord. And after we free my uncle, he can  
reclaim his title.”

  
Lord Mors raised an eyebrow. “So willing to strip the man of his newest title?”

  
Sansa smirked. “I have other plans for Lord Baelish.”

  
Lord Mors guffawed. “I’ll give the man credit. Littlefinger can talk a man out of his smallclothes.”

  
Sansa smiled. Lyn Corbray had said the very same thing. I do so love a nicely bandied word.

  
Since the archer was being unresponsive, Petyr turned and beckoned a soldier forward. “Tell Lord  
Jason I do not come as a threat. I have a gift for him as a token of good faith. Tell my lord his son  
Patrek has been returned to him.” Sansa watched as the young lord was brought forward, and  
called out for his father. Three heads poked out from atop the battlements.

  
With a loud clank, the portcullis was raised. A tall man dressed in silver armour appeared across  
the drawbridge. Sansa watched as he and Lord Baelish exchanged a few words. She was too far  
away to read their expressions, but the man clasped his son’s shoulder and ushered him inside.

  
Petyr turned and waved to Lord Redfort. He helped Sansa off her horse, and together they made  
their way to where Lord Baelish was standing. He had a very amused expression on his face.

  
Lord Mallister was smiling widely, his fierce blue eyes shining in the morning light.

  
As Sansa approached him, his smile widened. “My lady, you are the very image of your mother.”

  
He knelt and kissed her hand. Sansa put down her hood and smiled, thanking him for his  
hospitality.

  
He ushered them inside, assuring them that he would provide tents and nourishment for the over  
twenty thousand soldiers. The lords and knights would have lodgings inside the castle. They were  
led into the great hall, and orders were shouted to prepare a feast. The doors were shut. Sansa sat  
beside Petyr on the bench, Lord Redfort beside Lord Mallister. He poured each of them a glass of  
wine.

  
“Now then, Baelish. I know something is afoot here. Twenty thousand men all to pay taxes? You  
must take me for a fool.”

  
Petyr clasped his hands. “On the other hand my lord, I take you for a man of honour. I told you I  
helped the Lady Sansa escape from her captivity, but I did not tell you the precise reason for our  
arrival.”

  
Lord Mallister glanced at Sansa. If he was expecting a shy, courteous girl, he would get a lot more  
than that. She gave him a set smile. “Lord Mallister, you were a great supporter of my brother  
Robb when he proclaimed himself as King. Lord Redfort has told me you were to keep my  
mother safe before…the untimely events that occurred that my uncle Edmure’s wedding.”

  
He smiled at her sadly. “I am so sorry for your losses, my lady. Truly, your brother and mother  
were brave and courageous people. I supported them whole-heartedly.”

  
“Would you do the same for me, my lord?” She cocked an eyebrow, challenging him.

  
Lord Mallister hesitated. “My lady…those days…they are best left in the past. Seagard is at peace  
now. So much death and destruction--”

  
Sansa interrupted him. “I am not asking you to support me as Queen of the North, that is my  
birthright. I am asking you to change the world as you know it. Support me as Queen of the Seven  
Kingdoms.”

  
Lord Mallister nervously licked his lips. His graying brow furrowed as he hesitated. “My lady…”

  
Lord Redfort spoke up. “Jason, we fought alongside one another in the Whispering Wood. And I  
nearly lost an arm for Queen Sansa to help her overtake Winterfell. She inspires love and justice in  
us all. It was no one but Her Grace who rallied twenty-thousand men to her.”

  
“Aye, but for the North. Westeros…you do not hold a claim to that.”

  
“Tell me my lord, are you satisfied with a bastard king sitting on the throne? The Lannisters have  
caused much bloodshed to protect their little secret. You say I do not hold a blood claim. But,  
would you really want another Targaryen or Baratheon on the throne? The Starks were the Kings  
of Winter, and turned a desolate and barren land into a prosperous one before the Targaryens  
landed. I am not saying my blood will make me a good Queen, but I have lived in court and I  
know how it operates.” Sansa felt the confidence in her voice. She had seen men underestimate  
her before. It scarcely bothered her. Women were afforded so little opportunity and choice in the  
world they lived in. Many simply obeyed their fathers, brothers or husbands. It was a life she too  
would have led. Except fate had other plans for her. Her thoughts turned to Margaery Tyrell. It  
was a conversation they once had strolling in the gardens of the Red Keep. Margaery. Gone  
before her time. She too had been ambitious and an opportunist. But, she had fallen so low.

  
Lord Mallister broke Sansa out of her reverie. “I do not deny that you would very well make a  
good Queen, my lady. You were meant to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms many years ago, but  
King Joffrey dropped you.” Sansa flinched internally, her anger rising. “Why would you want to  
be Queen after all that?”

  
“Because unlike some who hide in their castles in this false peace, I want to bring a permanent and  
stable reign to the realm,” she snapped, her blue eyes flashing.

  
Lord Baelish smirked, and crossed his arms. The room was silent. The air felt tense. Sansa stared  
at Lord Mallister challenging him. He cleared his throat and took a long sip of wine. Lord Baelish  
stroked his pointy beard. Sansa stole a glance at Lord Redfort, and he clasped his hands together  
and sat taller in his seat.

  
“The time is right, Jason. If we sit by and let this pass, another opportunity may not arise. Her  
Grace is a woman who possesses an inner strength and is loved by her people.” No, not me. Arya.

  
Arya was the one who loved nothing better than to sit at her father’s table and listen to the  
smallfolk. She had loved listening to the men on the benches too; to freeriders tough as leather,  
courtly knights and bold young squires, grizzled old men-at-arms. The kitchen maids gave her  
scones and she invented names for their babies and played monsters-and-maidens their children.

  
Arya was the one who made friends with anyone. Sansa was simply kind and courteous. She truly  
cared for her people, but found speaking with everyone exhausting after a time.

  
“Not to mention she has one of the smartest and most cunning men of our time alongside her,”  
interjected Lord Redfort.

  
Lord Mallister laughed heartily. “Aye, Littlefinger was always a mischievous one. I remember the  
days when he came with Lord Hoster...” He trailed his stout fingers along the engravings of the  
cup, lost in thought. “Lady Stark, I will support you as I did support your kin and my dear friend,  
Edmure Tully.”

  
Sansa gave him a warm smile, forgiving him for his hesitation. “Thank you, my lord. I know you  
were close to Lord Edmure. My uncle’s release is of the highest concern to me, I assure you.”

  
Petyr drummed his fingers on the table. “Excellent. Lord Mallister, the Queen will take her rest  
now. I was rather hoping to be informed on the current events and happenings in the realm. I have  
not had access to a raven for quite some time.” As Lord Baelish and Lord Mallister prattled on,  
Sansa left the hall. She did not miss the sly smile on Petyr’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another update, friends! It's been a quiet weekend so I've had some time to  
> write out a few chapters.  
> Wonder what Lord Baelish will find out ;)


	33. Moon Glow

Sansa watched the ocean from her perch on the window seat in her chambers. The sound of the  
waves crashing against the rocks soothed her soul. She almost forgot to think as she lost herself in  
the sound. Seagard had been very hospitable. Lord Mallister was truly grateful his heir had been  
returned to him unharmed. The feast had been quickly prepared but was nonetheless stupendous.

  
Sansa had missed the taste of tarragon stewed rabbit. As she had feasted with her lords, she could  
not help but notice her Lord Hand was not among the guests. Sansa had other guesses as to where  
he might have been. Petyr would leave her to win over Lord Mallister’s heart, as he went about  
snooping and finding letters, and going over news with the maester.

  
Her candle flickered and sputtered out, and the room went dark. The moon shone brightly and  
Sansa did not bother relighting it. She did not hear the door creak open or soft footsteps.

  
“I loved a maid as red as autumn with moonglow in her hair,” came the silky voice.

  
Sansa smiled to herself, but did not turn to face him. “That’s not the way it goes…” She was  
perfectly aware of how her figure and every curve could be seen through her thein silk gown in  
the soft glow. She chose it specifically to tempt him, knowing he would come for her tonight.

  
“Oh, I know.” Strong arms enveloped her, and Sansa leaned back into him, drawing his arms  
across her. He breathed in her scent, lightly applied lavender oil to her pulse points. Sansa sighed  
contently. It had been too long since she had felt him like this. Since they had been this close.

  
They stayed quiet for a few moments listening to the waves, then Sansa turned and faced him.

  
Petyr smiled as he softly ran his thumb over her nipples through the thin material. She held his  
gaze as she slid the material off deliberately and slowly, baring herself to him completely.

  
He stepped back and took in the view before him. His eyes traced over her slowly, and Sansa felt  
venereal. “If only you could see how you look in the moon light… Sometimes I wonder if you’re  
real.” His voice was so soft, barely a whisper. She blushed. Sansa had been praised and  
complimented for as long as she could remember, but no one was as insightful as Petyr. He  
worshipped her as if she were a goddess. He slowly shrugged off his robe and shirt, his eyes  
shining.

  
Sansa approached him and ran her finger down his long white scar. She stopped where it ended,  
and stroked gently. The moon light lit up his features. His sharp nose. Grey-green eyes. She  
grazed her fingers over his beard, and gently placed her lips on his, winding her hands behind his  
neck. Their tongues danced, and Petyr cupped her breast, squeezing and causing a moan to escape  
from her lips.

  
She broke away, which surprised Petyr. She slowly lay down on the floor, her blue eyes  
imploring him. “Since you like moon glow so much.”

  
Petyr gave her a sly smile. He joined her on the floor, the blue Myrish rug cushioning them. Petyr  
trailed kisses down her neck. Her chest. Her stomach. He sucked on her, his lips exploring. Sansa  
clenched her fists in his hair, and cried out. He entwined his fingers in hers, and held their arms  
above her head and he entered her. He began with a slow rocking motion, teasing her by not  
entering all the way and giving shallow thrusts, which caused Sansa to wrinkle her face in  
discontent and wrap her legs around his back, trying to pull him in further. He chuckled softly and  
filled her to the core.

  
They continued laying in the moonlight after they were done. Sansa smiled inwardly as Petyr  
pulled her on top of him. “Oh sweetling, I did miss you.” He stroked her hair, as she felt their  
hearts beat together as one.

  
A playful thought entered her mind and Sansa sat up and straddled him. She smiled seductively.  
“What did you find out from the maester?”

  
He crossed his arms behind his head and settled in. “Lots of things…”

  
Sansa raised any eyebrow, but Petyr did not say anything more, only continued to stare at her with  
a smirk on his lips. She rocked her hips against him, and his expression changed. His brow raised  
and his lips relaxed. Oh, so we’re playing this game.

  
She rocked again, grinding herself against him and Petyr hissed. “Let’s see…a decree from  
Tommen Baratheon pardoning Lord Mallister for his support of the Stark-Tully cause.”

  
“Is that what they called it? Seems more like the Stark-Baelish cause now…” She took him in her  
hands, and began to stroke up and down lightly, letting her fingers drag across him delicately.

  
His eyes closed, and he gave a very content purr. “Hmmmm…your uncle is being held at Casterly  
Rock and Riverrun was given to a Frey.” Sansa stopped and stared down at him in annoyance.

  
How many children had the old man had? He gave her a pointed look, and Sansa continued her  
actions at a slow pace. “The Blackfish…your mother’s uncle has disappeared. His whereabouts  
are unknown but he might resurface now that your presence in the riverlands is becoming  
known.”

  
“My presence? What happened to your tax collector farce?”

  
He chuckled. “If you want the riverlords to rally to your side, then they have to know who they  
are fighting for. And that the Starks are not gone.”

  
“But, are they not content with the peace Jaime Lannister had restored upon them?” She guided  
him into her entrance, and sat down on him fully causing them both to moan in pleasure. His  
hands went to her hips and he held her tightly.

  
“…Peace? There is a hoard of bandits called the Brotherhood without Banners laying waste to the  
land. Beric Dondarrion, Thoros of Myr, a woman called Lady Stoneheart and Sandor Clegane.”

  
Sansa laughed out loud. “The Hound?” She remembered Sandor Clegane well. She remembered  
when he left her with a bloody cloak and a kiss. Only she had misplaced the cloak, but not the  
kiss. She pushed the thought away as she bounced up and down on Petyr, her thoughts only  
filling with her mockingbird.

  
Their breathing grew heavier and her thoughts became less focused. Petyr was her world now. He  
gasped as they both neared their climaxes and the air was filled with gasps and moans. Sansa  
collapsed on top of him. As their breathing slowed, Sansa pulled herself off him and stood up,  
walking to a desk. She dipped a cloth in a wash basin and wiped her legs. Petyr had moved to the  
window seat. The moon glow lit his naked body, and Sansa admired how lean and muscular he  
was. She sat across from him, propping her arm on the sill.

  
“A band of outlaws can be easily crushed. But, for now they have destroyed a few small towns.  
However, their direction seems to have changed since this Stoneheart made an appearance. They  
seem to think they are the dispensaries of justice.”

  
“What do you mean?” Sansa reached for the wine pitcher and poured herself a goblet.

  
“Hanging Freys.” His voice had an amused tone.

  
Sansa laughed. “Someone who hates Freys more than I do? Is that even possible?”

  
“Quite interesting… There is something else that is far more interesting though.” He took her wine  
goblet and took a long sip.

  
“Oh?” said Sansa, raising an eyebrow.

  
“Jaime Lannister seems to have disappeared without a trace...”

  
“What?” Sansa was shocked. She half-expected to meet the Queen’s twin on the road in battle.

  
She had heard he lost his sword hand, but he was nonetheless still the same knight. A commander  
now.

  
“He was last seen leaving Raventree Hall. Lord Blackwood was the last to bend the knee to the  
Crown. He procured one of his sons as a hostage and ward in good faith. Then, a woman came  
and he was not seen after.” Petyr smoothed his hair. He did not appear concerned but Sansa found  
it very strange the most infamous man in the Seven Kingdoms could just disappear. The  
Kingslayer. Everyone knew his face.

  
“Do you think he’s dead?” she said quietly, finding it hard to believe the words herself.

  
“Dead? He has not been seen for over a month. He’s very likely dead. It’s better for us,  
sweetling.” Petyr sounded unconcerned. He stood and began to dress. Sansa watched him as he  
pulled on his breeches. “In a few days, we’ll make the trip to Raventree Hall. Lord Blackwood  
keeps the old gods. Lord Mallister assures me he is a good place to start to gather lords. He owns a  
lot of land and underlords.”

  
Sansa nodded and smoothed her hair. It had become rather wild and knotted in their tumbling.

  
“What of Riverrun?”

  
Petyr smirked and passed her hairbrush to her. “The Blackfish will likely make an appearance  
between now and then. But, we need Edmure Tully before we leave for Harrenhal.”

  
“We’ll have to battle the Lannisters then. They’re weaker without any strong leader. No Tywin. No Jaime. Kevan is no doubt at King’s Landing, and Cersei must’ve called half the army to the  
capital.”

  
Petyr nodded. “Quite right, sweetling. They’re at their weakest now. Losing Ser Jaime worked out  
for us.” He buttoned his robe, and checked himself in the mirror. Sansa stayed on the window  
seat, the moonlight still engulfing her as she ran the brush through her hair. He admired her from  
afar, then came and planted a kiss on her lips.

  
“We’ll leave in a few days. Get some rest.”

  
Sansa reached for his hand and nuzzled her cheek against his soft skin. “Who’s the guard at my  
door? We were rather…loud.”

  
Petyr chuckled and cupped her chin. “A man I’ve paid very well.”

  
Sansa sighed. “More than the Iron Throne, I want to go to Harrenhal. Once we’re married, there  
will be no more hiding behind closed doors.” Petyr smiled, his eyes twinkling then quietly left, the  
door clicked shut.

  
Sansa watched the waves crashing against the rocks. In a way, it was rather beautiful. How the  
ocean refused to stop kissing the rocks, no matter how many times it was sent away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> where oh where is jaime lannister........


	34. Prince of Dragonflies

Petyr knelt to wash his hands in the raging waters of the Blue Fork of the Trident. The sun was  
beating down on them, and Sansa had suggested they stop for a rest. They had travelled for two  
days from Seagard and in another two would reach Raventree Hall. Petyr smiled inwardly as he  
cleansed his hands in the river. The Trident flows and I am its Lord. Of course he realized it was  
an empty title. The riverlords would only ever accept a Tully as their liege lord, not a man from  
the Vale. King Joffrey had simply bequeathed it to him in order for his status to rise and bring the  
Vale into the stronghold. The title had allowed him to do move more people into the right places,  
and gain more allies.

  
Lyn Corbray was his biggest ally. He recalled the story of how his grandfather had been a  
sellsword from Braavos in the service of the Corbray family. Only now, the tables had turned.

  
House Corbray and its underlords Houses Belmore, Lynderly and Grafton owed him a debt. They  
would have collapsed into financial ruin had he not stepped in at the right time. Gold meant  
nothing to Petyr Baelish. Though no one was the wiser, he was currently the wealthiest man in  
Westeros. By moving men into the right places, he had not only acquired large amounts of wealth,  
but had also caused the financial ruin of many families. Some he let fall, the Lannisters and  
Baratheons being his prime targets. Others, such as the Royces and Corbrays he nearly  
bankrupted, then bailed them out at the last minute. It was a game. A game that was very real to  
the pawns, but only an illusion to the players. He had a mind for numbers, and the Iron Bank  
appreciated his ingenuity very much indeed.

  
He leaned against a tree at the bend of the river, using his dagger to peel and slice a blood orange.  
Somehow his fingers were spared from the sticky juice. He chuckled to himself. Clean hands,  
Sansa. He turned and scanned the large camp. All around him, soldiers were cleaning armour or  
sharpening their swords. A few were playing a game of cards, and a knight was yelling at his  
squire for misplacing his boiled leather jerkin. He did not catch sight of shining auburn hair  
anywhere.

  
Petyr stood and brushed the dust from his robe. He walked about the camp, and enquired after  
where the Queen had gone off to. They simply shook their heads. One knight had a sly smile, but  
could not say where the little Queen had gone off to. Petyr disliked the tone of voice he had when  
speaking about Sansa, he would have to deal with him later. The right words in a lords ear.  
Finally, he found Ser Emery, who told Petyr the Queen was gathering flowers near a hill.

  
Petyr walked in the direction of the largest hill. At its base, there were a multitude of wildflowers  
of all different shades, but no Sansa. He sighed and trudged up the side of the steep hill. When he  
reached the top, he almost gasped. Before him, rose the vine-covered charred stone walls of an  
ancient castle. The wood and beams had rotted away long ago, leaving only the stone, though  
even that was being eaten away by time itself and stood far apart. The stone itself was spotted with  
lichen and crumbling. The area was thick with weeds and overgrown trees.

  
As a child he had loved ruins, their mystery and allure. The idea that once a great family had built  
their fame and identity here, and yet they too had fallen from so great a height. Until their name  
faded into nothing. Until they too were forgotten. Only he remembered. House Mudd. An ancient  
stronghold that once would have engulfed the entire crest of the hill. It was a mighty house that  
had united all the river kings under one house, and defeated the first Andal invasions. Only their  
fall from grace was to be by a son of the Andal king the ruler of House Mudd beheaded. And now  
only lichen and ivy remain.

  
He moved to the center of the walls, pulling aside a curtain of ivy. At what would have once been  
the castle yard, a great carved sepulcher rested, half-hidden by waist high grass. He ran his fingers  
across the carving. It would have once been smooth. Marble. Only now, time had eaten away at  
the tomb of Tristifer Mudd, King of the Rivers and Hills. The wind and rain had destroyed the  
craving, but he would still make up the nose and eyes. Even a crown. The king’s hands were  
folded over the shaft of a stone warhammer that lies upon his chest. Once the warhammer would  
have been carved with the runes that told its name and history, but the runes had long since worn  
away. The marble was cracked and crumbling at the corners and discolored by the lichen. Wild  
roses crept around the base of the tomb. Petyr smiled sadly.

  
He had been here before. The original name was lost, but he did not forget what the castle had  
been called in his boyhood. Oldstones. It was almost amusing how little it had changed since then,  
hidden from sight in the ivy and tall grass. But the boy who once played beneath the trees here  
was no longer the same. Time had slowly shaped and moulded Oldstones into what it was now.

  
The name had been forgotten but the legacy had not. Time had also shaped Petyr Baelish.

  
He suddenly heard singing. A familiar tune. He lost himself in the melody, the sweet melody. Had  
he not once loved songs? In the songs, the hero always won. Love conquered all. He shook his  
head. Life was not a song, he had learned that long ago to his sorrow. The singing grew louder,  
and Petyr stepped away from the tomb and into the shade of the ash trees. The singing was louder  
still, but Petyr could not find the sweet girl whose voice it belonged to.

  
He approached a small clearing, the sun shining brightly on his face. He squinted a bit to block the  
light. He saw a quick blur of auburn hair and he smiled, approaching the tall grass. He gasped  
when he saw the sight before him. Her long auburn hair was braided and intertwined with  
wildflowers. She wore a plain white dress that exposed her lower arms. As she twirled in the  
sunlight, singing and dancing, Petyr felt his heart slow. He recognized the tune. Jenny. Jenny  
singing of her lost love. The girl stopped when she saw him, and yelped in surprise. “Oh, Petyr!”  
The girl with the shining auburn hair smiled coyly. “Will you be my Prince of Dragonflies?”

  
It can’t be. Petyr turned quickly and fled to the tomb. It could not be. She was dead. And even if  
she was dead, this was only a girl. Cat. Cat had been much older when she died. He breathed in  
slowly, trying to calm his mind. She came up behind him, and he turned slowly. Bright blue eyes  
stared back at him in concern.

  
He reached for her, and she allowed him to pull her into an embrace. Her brow furrowed in  
confusion, and Petyr kissed her forehead. Sansa. It was only his sweetling. His Queen of Love  
and Beauty. I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunset in her hair. He knew the songs. He knew  
the legends. Red hair was rare and lucky. He glided his fingers through it. Soft as silk.

  
Sansa raised her head, her features etched with concern. “Did I scare you?”

  
“I think I scared myself, Sansa.” He continued stroking her hair. I thought I saw a ghost.

  
She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “I’m probably the least terrifying person alive.”

  
He chuckled, but his smile did not reach his eyes. It was uncanny how much she looked like her  
mother when she was twelve in that moment. Lord Hoster, Lysa, Edmure, Cat and him had been  
travelling to Seagard and stopped to rest on this very hill. He was only a boy, about eight. Cat had  
worn a thin cotton dress and braided blue cornflowers in her hair. She had been Jenny, and he her  
Prince of Dragonflies. A thousand years ago, he had fallen in love with her that very day. But, that  
had only been a child’s fancy. This girl before him was real. And her look of love and concern  
was so genuine, Petyr bent to kiss her deeply. She gasped in surprise, but gave in to the kiss and  
met his force.

  
Sansa in this moment looked exactly as Catelyn had when he grew up with her. The first day he  
saw Sansa at the Tourney of the Hand, he thought he had seen a Cat. Only Cat would have aged  
in the twenty years since he had last seen her. But, in that moment he swore the little red-haired  
girl on the arm of Eddard Stark laughing and prancing with her younger sister was his former  
love. Only it wasn’t. She had her hair. Her look. But, Sansa was not Cat. Sansa was so much  
more. Sansa loved him. Catelyn never had. Sansa was to be a Queen, and Catelyn was long dead.

  
She stroked his arm playfully, and he bumped against the tomb. Sansa stopped and looked behind.

  
He knew she had a deep respect for the dead, and would not continue any romantic notions here.

  
Instead, she asked him what this place was. Petyr sat with her against the tomb, telling her of  
House Mudd and the river kings, all the while hearing the tune of Jenny and her lost love playing  
in his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoyed writing this chapter. It seemed so emotional and poetic to me and  
> really shows a more vulnerable side to Baelish that would never be explored in  
> canon. This is based on canon, as Catelyn and Robb actually do stop by Oldstones on  
> the way to the Twins for the wedding and Catelyn remembers Jenny and how Petyr  
> was her Prince of Dragonflies. I hope I was able to capture it nicely :)


	35. Maiden

Sansa tapped her quill against the large weirwood desk. The high lords were assembled in Tytos  
Blackwood, the Lord of Raventree Hall’s solar. It had been a few days since their arrival, and  
Lord Tytos had been courteous and hospitable. He had meager food supplies due to the year long  
siege his neighbour, Janos Bracken had set upon him that Jaime Lannister ended. But, his halls  
were warm and a welcome respite from the rain. He was a smiling, jovial man. His large hooked  
nose and black feather cloak made him seem like a raven. Indeed, every day at dusk, thousands of  
ravens would return to Raventree Hall and roost on the great weirwood tree in the castle  
courtyard. The tree was dead, as it had been for thousands of years, burned in a fire. It no longer  
grew in height, but had already reached a colossal size, its white limbs visible from miles away.

  
But, the tree was dead, and would soon turn to stone. Immutable. This saddened Sansa, as she had  
not seen a weirwood since they left the North. She longed to speak to Bran. What had happened  
to Jon? Was he successful in defeating the White Walkers? Was Bran able to locate Rickon? The  
questions that held no answers disrupted her sleep, but she had no way to communicate with her  
brother without the carved faces.

  
Lord Baelish stood, clasping his hands in front of him. “My lords, our next plan is to free Riverrun  
from Emmon Frey and his Lannister bride. Judging from the lack of Lannister men in the  
Riverlands, they have all either returned to Casterly Rock or answered Cersei’s summons to the  
Capitol. We have decided to send most of the men to the Westerlands and wait for a signal to  
attack. Lord Royce and Lord Locke will accompany Queen Sansa and myself to Riverrun.”

  
Lord Mallister frowned. “How many men is that?”

 

“Around four thousand,” replied Lord Royce evenly.

  
“But, is that enough to attack and hold the castle?” interjected Lord Blackwood.

  
“It will be. Jaime Lannister took Riverrun with the same number,” said Lord Redfort.

  
“Ah, but Edmure surrendered to him, and the Blackfish escaped,” put in Lord Mallister. “I would  
like to stay with Her Grace to atone for being unable to defend her lady mother and brother at the  
Twins.”

  
Sansa smiled warmly. “Your offer is most kind, my lord. But, we need everyone at the  
Westerlands. We are at an advantage with half their army gone to King’s Landing.”

  
“All the more reason to stay with you, my Queen. Emmon Frey will not be defeated without a  
battle. He will not surrender as Edmure did,” said Lord Mallister.

  
“Very well, your offer is accepted,” said Lord Baelish. “We will draw up the battle plans on the  
morrow.”

  
“Did you find out what happened to Lannister then, Lord Petyr?” said Lord Harry, crossing his  
arms.

  
“My Lord Harry, you have a gift for reading minds, I was just about to come to that,” said Petyr  
jokingly. That earned a round of laughter from the men.

  
“Lannister disappeared about a month ago, as you are all well aware. On his way back to Casterly  
Rock, a woman appeared and he was not seen since. This was at Penny tree, not too far from  
Raventree. My sources tell me Lannister has not left the Riverlands, but is within sight.” He  
paused for effect. All eyes were on him. “It appears Ser Jaime has joined the Brotherhood without  
Banners.”

  
There was a roar of laughter and confusion among the lords gathered. Sansa glanced at Petyr, who  
winked at her. He had already told her this bit of information hours ago. There were scouts being  
sent out to find this Stoneheart woman and her band of vagrants. It had greatly surprised Sansa  
that valiant, arrogant Ser Jaime would simply abandon his sister and his family to join a cause that  
stood for a lawless land. He was a knight. A member of the Kingsguard. Petyr suspected very  
much the same, and doubted he did it willfully. There were other forces at work, and Lord Baelish  
was determined to find out what was driving this Stoneheart woman. The group was elusive and  
difficult to track. Sansa did not doubt a few of the scouts would be killed. Better placed were  
Petyr’s spies, posing as smallfolk who could move about undetected and unsuspected.

  
“Lannister the turncloak!” shouted Lord Mors, booming with laughter.

  
Petyr raised his hand for calm. The room slowly settled. “While Ser Jaime is no doubt an amusing  
topic, we have sent out scouts to locate him and bring him to the Queen’s Justice. Now, you had  
best prepare your armies, my lords.”

  
There was a shout and a cheer for “Queen Sansa!” and the lords filed out, Petyr in tow. Sansa  
settled back into her chair. She was personally writing letters to the many lords and ladies in  
Westeros calling for their support to her claim. She poured white candle wax onto the small piece  
of parchment and pressed the direwolf seal in.

  
A man cleared his throat. Sansa looked up. Lord Blackwood stared back at her smiling. “I trust  
you are well settled, my Queen.”

  
“Very well, my lord. Your hospitality and support is greatly appreciated.” House Blackwood had  
been the last stronghold to surrender to the Lannisters. Only a month before, the banner of House  
Stark had flown upon its battlements. And today, it was flying high again.

  
“I am glad, Your Grace. There is a matter of importance to me, I would like to discuss with you,”  
he said.

  
Sansa folded her hands across her lap. “Your concerns are my concerns, Lord Blackwood. Please  
speak freely.”

  
He cleared his throat once more. “I have been blessed with many children, Your Grace. Seven  
healthy babes. My second son Lucas was slain at the Red Wedding, may the Stranger watch over  
him. But, I have six left. I would like to see them settled into good marriages. House Blackwood is  
no Stark, Baratheon or Targaryen. But, we are a noble house nonetheless. I would like my  
children to secure good matches.”

  
Sansa smiled tentatively. He was not the first lord who had asked her for matches for their  
children. It was a simple enough request. Except half the highest born nobles in the country were  
already married or dead. And she was not sure how many would be left after the war. “Of course,  
my lord. I thank you for your loyalty to both my brother and I. You must understand that I have  
made similar promises to many lords, therefore I can only match two of your children at the  
moment.”

  
He bowed his head solemnly. “Of course, Your Grace. For my eldest, Brynden. And for my  
jewel, Bethany.”

  
Sansa smiled. Lord Blackwood was very fond of his only daughter. But, what he said next almost  
made her choke on her wine. “Would the Lord Hand agree to a match with my daughter?”

  
Sansa sputtered. “L-l-lord Baelish?” The shock was clear on her face. She coughed a bit, and tried  
to change her expression. “Forgive me, my lord. Your daughter is still a child. Only ten-and-one.

  
Would another not do?”

  
“Lord Baelish is only thirty-six, Your Grace. There have been far stranger matches. Your own  
aunt, the Lady Lysa married a man old enough to be her grandfather.” Sansa tried not to laugh.

  
What did Lord Blackwood see in Petyr? Surely, he would want a younger, handsome gallant  
knight for his little jewel. Someone who could complete the pretty picture he held in his mind.

  
“Lord Baelish is promised to another I’m afraid. Do not ask me who. It is his private affair and I  
would rather you keep this between us. I do not want gossip spreading.”

  
Lord Tytos looked surprised, as if he did not believe her. He hesitated before he spoke. “You  
might question why I would want to give away my favourite child to a man old enough to be her  
father, I know. Your own father would not have done it. But, Lord Baelish has procured more  
titles in the last twenty years than any man. He is the most powerful man in Westeros. I only want  
a good position for my daughter.”

  
His voice was soft and genuine. Sansa frowned. Why would this man ever want to throw such a  
young and innocent girl into the chaos of court? Her own father hadn’t. But, Sansa had begged.

  
She always wanted to be Queen. It was something she was born to be. Always a lady, always so  
courteous. But, little Bethany was sheltered and innocent. She did not have the steel Sansa did to  
survive court life, even if there was no longer a king more interested in murdering small animals  
than wooing his betrothed. Court was no place for a maid under the age of fourteen in Sansa’s  
eyes. “Lord Royce has a son, my lord. His heir Ser Andar is a good man and still unmarried. She  
would be Lady of Runestone one day. An excellent position in the Vale, I’m sure you would  
agree.”

  
Lord Tytos leaned forward and kissed her hand. Sansa smiled warmly at him. There was a knock  
on the door. Sansa looked up, and Petyr stood in the doorway. He smiled amicably at Lord Tytos.

  
“A moment with the Queen, my lord.”

  
“Of course, Lord Baelish. Of course.” Lord Tytos bowed to Sansa, and stood before Petyr. “Best  
of luck on your match, my lord. Your secret is safe with me.” As he exited, Petyr gave Sansa an  
odd look. She waited for his footsteps to recede, then she burst out laughing. Petyr closed the  
door, and slowly walked to her. “What was he saying, sweetling?”

  
“Would you believe me if I told you Lord Tytos wanted to give his daughter Bethany to you?”

  
Lord Baelish feigned horror, and Sansa laughed even harder.

  
Petyr bent down and kissed her hard on the mouth, biting her lip. Sansa gasped. “I only have eyes  
for one fair maiden.”

  
Sansa smiled seductively. “I’m not a maiden any longer.”

  
“Oh, how right you are.” He scooped Sansa out of the chair, and sat her on the desk. She wrapped  
her eyes around his neck, and kissed him back. Their tongues battled for dominance. Of course,  
Petyr was still attractive and at thirty-six he was hardly old. Her own father had been ten years  
older, but the age difference no longer bothered Sansa. Innocence and experience make for a  
perfect marriage. And were they not living proof of those words. He had taught her so much, and  
together they were conquering Westeros with wits and beauty. His cunning. Her love. It was a  
perfect match.

  
Petyr turned his attention to Sansa’s neck and pushed the fabric covering one shoulder down. She  
unpinned his mockingbird, and pulled on his collar sucking on a throbbing pulse on his throat.

  
Petyr loosened a few laces and squeezed her breast, eliciting a soft moan from Sansa. Neither of  
them heard the door open. But, they both heard the gasp. Sansa froze and let go of Petyr. She did  
not turn. Petyr managed to keep his cool, and raised his head, slowly covering Sansa’s shoulder.

  
“Lord Harry,” he said slightly annoyed.

  
Sansa expertly laced the few laces Petyr had undone with great speed. She turned around slowly,  
still sitting on the desk. Harry’s face was red in embarrassment. Sansa bit her lip. Harry was once  
in love with her, and she had given him Myranda Royce instead. Only he had not seen his lady  
wife in months. Sansa could not help but wonder if his fondness for her had endured past the  
weeks she was Alayne Stone in the Eyrie.

  
She kept her composure and smoothed her skirts, as if nothing had happened. Petyr moved away  
to the window and fixed his collar. Sansa remained sitting cross-legged on the desk. It was an  
awkward situation and the air was tense. But, no one knew how to handle an awkward matter  
better than Petyr and Sansa. The key was not to feel or appear awkward. A situation was only  
awkward if the other person was made to feel that way. “Was there something you wanted to say,  
Harry?”

  
His face only reddened, causing him to look like a ripened tomato. “Err…yes, there is a man who  
wishes to see you and…Lord Baelish.” He looked at her as if she had grown three heads.

  
“Thank you, Harry,” she said sweetly and leapt off the desk. He backed away slightly. Sansa felt  
like rolling her eyes. This man had mistresses and two bastard children and yet he was  
embarrassed by seeing two powerful people find love in each other. “You may show him in.”

  
“Right.” Harry left the room, and Sansa turned to look at Petyr who rolled his eyes in annoyance.

  
Sansa smirked. Better Harry than Bronze Yohn. He returned with a tall man with a face  
weathered by time. Harry was smiling now, his embarrassment gone. The man stared at Sansa.

  
She felt something familiar about him. The man had grey hair with flecks of red scattered  
throughout. Sansa recognized the steel blue eyes staring back at her. They reminded her of  
someone. Suddenly, she felt safe and happy. Mother, a voice inside her whispered.

  
“You look just like her,” the man said, before pulling his niece into a tight embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> awks in a box LOL  
> their relationship is slowly becoming known... and a happy surprise for Sansa! Who  
> could it be?  
> Btw guys, I will be ending this fic sooner than I anticipated because of my crazy year  
> ahead. So another 11-16 chapters and we're done. I will most likely finish writing by  
> the beginning of Sept and post til October. This means the plot will be more  
> simplified than I originally planned, but I wont cut down on quality just the quantity  
> of chapters. So sorry but I know the quality would suck when I'm madly distracted  
> and only have the weekends to myself.


	36. Land of Rivers

“He holds the castle with a garrison of only three hundred men,” said Sansa sarcastically. “The  
man’s a fool.”

  
The Blackish, Brynden Tully chuckled. “Two hundred would be enough, child. Those are the  
numbers we kept. Isn’t it, Littlefinger?” Sansa glanced at Petyr, who sat tall in his saddle. The  
relationship between Petyr and Lord Brynden was amusing. Apparently, they had a good  
relationship during Petyr’s youth when he was fostered at Riverrun. Petyr had often gone to him  
for advice and shared his secrets with him. Sansa also learned that Petyr did not have the best  
relationship with Edmure Tully. She was surprised he allowed Lord Brynden to call him  
Littlefinger at all. It had been a name Edmure had used to taunt him. Being a small boy, heir to a  
very small strip of land. But, that name had been reborn. Many feared Littlefinger, and many more  
admired his cunning and quick wit. There was a lot more to Petyr Baelish.

  
The sandstone castle stood before them, surrounded on all side by the rivers. Riverrun was literally  
on an island, at the point where the Tumblestone and the Red Fork met. The air was full of mist.

  
Sansa marvelled at the beauty of the surroundings. The moat surrounding the castle was filled,  
making the castle impassable for the moment. Her great-uncle told her the castle had never been  
sieged by storm and had very rarely surrendered. His fool of a nephew was one of the first.

  
Clearly, the Blackfish had little respect for Lord Edmure. But, blood was blood and he was  
determined to get the Lord of Riverrun back. Though he would not do it himself.

  
Sansa was growing rather fond of her uncle. He was a smiling, jovial man. She enjoyed his stories  
from this childhood and war stories. But, most of all she enjoyed him japing with Petyr and telling  
stories that would have embarrassed the Lord Hand. But, he held an amused expression on his  
face. Petyr was always hiding behind the mask of Littlefinger, so no blush or anger betrayed his  
true feelings. However, he did not seem to mind seeing Sansa laugh at his expense when the  
Blackfish told him the story of how Petyr stuffed a bag full of sheepshit and hid it in Edmure’s  
room as revenge. Sansa laughed heartily at that. Arya had done the very same to her when she had  
been particularly nasty. Only the laugh faded, and Sansa realized there was no Arya anymore.

  
Lord Bryden was an excellent listener, and Sansa felt some of the burden of the years wash away  
as she told her uncle of her beatings and humiliation at King’s Landing. She felt happiness at  
telling her uncle of her conquests and rise to power and meeting Jon Snow again.

  
He frowned at that. “Your mother never trusted the boy. Ned was a good lad. Loved my dear Cat.

  
Your mother was very well-loved in her home, child. Everyone’s favourite daughter. It ruined  
Lysa, I think. And Edmure…well…he was never very bright. Couldn’t even shoot the funeral  
bow properly when his father died.”

  
Now, as they stood before the ancestral stronghold of House Tully, Sansa felt her blood begin to  
boil. This was her home too. The blood of her mother. The Freys had taken so much from her. As  
had the Boltons. But, they had both fallen and she had regained what was rightfully hers.

  
Whoever this Stoneheart was, she was ridding the Realm of the few Freys scattered throughout  
the Riverlands. Now, Sansa would destroy both a Lannister and a Frey. She spied a raven leaving  
the battlements of the castle. She frowned. No doubt a message to Casterly Rock. It would be too  
late for the Lannisters to send troops, and even if they did, they could never breach through her  
army. Lord Tywin had commanded an army of thirty-thousand men while her brother had twentythousand  
during the War of the Five Kings. Although Sansa held a similar number, she doubted  
the Lannisters had more than sixteen-thousand men, with half away protecting the Queen Regent.

  
She turned to the Blackfish. “How do we get in?”

  
He winked at her and dismounted his horse. “How indeed.”

  


***

  
You could give a man a castle. A name. A title. But, that did not make the man the ruler of the  
castle. The castle itself held true to its true lords. It would not reveal its secrets to its captors. The  
castle would stay true and loyal. And Riverrun did the very same as Brynden Tully and his small  
host of men swam up to the Water Gate under the cover of darkness and stormed through the  
castle. It was not long before the three-hundred Lannister men were reduced to zero, and the  
Queen stood before Genna Lannister, Emmon Frey and their two remaining children.

  
Genna Lannister was clearly the dominant one, as her pimply husband kept muttering “they shall  
not take it from me, Riverrun is mine.” Lady Genna’s eyes flashed with anger, and she pointed an  
angry finger at Lord Baelish. “You! You are a turn cloak. My brother Tywin gave you  
everything, and yet you stab him in the back.”

 

Petyr smirked. “A dead man cannot hold loyalty.”

  
“Clearly, they do.” She turned her anger to Sansa. “Do you really think all these men stand behind  
you? Unless you’re opening your legs to all of them! Ha. They stand behind you because of your  
father. Honourable Eddard Stark,” she spat.

  
Sansa moved towards her quietly, her eyes flashing. “These men stand behind me because your  
brother’s legacy is destroyed. All the tyranny and blood he brought upon this land was in vain.  
The Lannister name will be wiped away in the dust.”

  
The woman laughed bitterly. “You wish, girl. Cersei is a lioness. She will pay her debts.”

  
Sansa smirked. “Will she? Cersei is going mad. She thinks she can surround a city with an army  
and no one will ever attack. As for lions…Jaime already turned on your family…he’s joined a  
band of outlaws that fight for a new beginning in Westeros.”

  
Lady Genna frowned. Sansa saw the pride and arrogance slip away from her. She never knew  
why they bothered gloating and trying to belittle her before they died. She always took away  
whatever they had left before they were killed. And Genna Lannister, sister of the Mighty Tywin  
would be no different. As they took the four of them out into the courtyard before the great red  
weirwood, Sansa felt at peace. The leaves rustled at her in greeting. She eyed the carved face,  
almost seeing the shadow of her brother Bran. Emmon Frey’s muttering grew more intense as his  
two children were slain before the heart tree, their blood seeping into the great roots. His muttering  
turned to wailing as Lord Mors approached him next, the knife bloodied.

  
“I am Lord Paramount of the Trident! You can’t do this! Riverrun is mine!” he wailed  
shamelessly.

  
“You are mistaken, Lord Frey. Lord Baelish is Lord Paramount, and that title belongs to Edmure  
Tully,” said Sansa, her gaze cool.

  
As his head hit the ground, Genna Lannister turned to Sansa. Her voice was hoarse as she  
whispered so only Sansa could hear. Her last words were intended to harm her and her alone.

  
“You enjoy this don’t you? Cersei said you were a stupid little bird, but you’re just like her. She’s  
in you, Sansa Stark. I can see that now. You got a taste for blood while you were licking your  
own wounds.”

  
Sansa bent down, and whispered in the blonde woman’s ear. “I’m Sansa Stark of Winterfell, and  
you can’t frighten me.” But, isn’t she right?, a voice whispered.

  
She began to walk away, back to her great-uncle Brynden waiting for her at the entrance back into  
the castle.

  
“The Lannisters should have killed you off while they still had you!” Lady Genna shouted, the  
hatred in her voice echoing throughout the court yard. Loud enough for the old gods to hear.

  
“Chopped your head off and mounted it alongside your cursed father!”

  
She heard a slap, and the sound of crunching bone.

  
“You’re right,” said the Queen, taking off her soft leather gloves as she strode out of the  
courtyard, her head held high. “They should have.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for not expanding on the relationship between Petyr and the Blackfish. It is  
> mentioned in canon that Petyr trusted the Blackfish, as did all the Tully children. You  
> can assume that the Blackfish is happy to have his niece alive and well and to see an  
> old friend. He is currently unaware of any romantic notions between them, as Lord  
> Harry has left along with the rest of the army for the Westerlands. When he  
> returns....we shall see.  
> I am purposely ignoring the whole Petyr-betrayed-Ned fiasco with a lack of  
> knowledge by the characters. Correct me if I'm wrong but it was not common  
> knowledge all over Westeros?


	37. A Part of Home

The red leaves rustled in the evening breeze as Sansa Stark knelt before the heart tree, her head  
bowed in silent prayer. What do you pray for, Sansa? they used to ask her in King’s Landing. For  
Joffrey. For the Queen. For mercy from the Mother. For love. For loyalty. All of those were lies.

  
The only thing Sansa ever truly prayed for was home.

  
She slipped the dagger from the holster around her thigh and brought it to her finger. Was home a  
place? Or did she carry parts of her home everywhere she went? She had regained her family  
home, the Stark legacy. But, home was so much more than just an ancient castle. Home was  
Robb. Her mother and father. Arya, Bran and Rickon. Jon Snow and all the direwolves. Without  
them, Winterfell was empty. She knew that now. Home was created by the people that lived there.

  
Their warmth and laughter. Their hopes and dreams, loves and wants. At Riverrun, Sansa felt  
happy. Lord Brynden filled the halls with laughter and stories. His bannermen respected him, as  
did the Lords of the Vale and the North. She had lost her father, but had gained a father figure.

  
His wisdom was infinite. But, something he said disturbed her. Petyr had grown quieter since they  
had arrived at Riverrun. He seemed more thoughtful and forlorn. Perhaps he was reliving the  
ghosts of his past. Of the childhood days he spent in the ancient castle. As the Blackfish dined and  
laughed, Petyr twirled his fork in his food, looking up at the balcony overlooking the dining hall  
lost in thought. Lord Brynden caught Sansa staring at him out of the corner of her eye. He had  
patted her hand and whispered in her ear, “All the coldest people you meet were once soft as  
water, and that is the tragedy of living.”

  
The words haunted Sansa. Everyone was a shadow of their former self. Destroyed by the cruelty  
of the world. A shadow of all the hopes and dreams, all the loves and wants they once hoped to  
achieve. Was that the tragedy of living? To live your youth full of hope and promise only to grow  
up and realize the words were empty? Petyr had worn a mask for so long, he had grown to fit it.

  
He was Littlefinger. Petyr was long gone, reserved only for her. And what of Sansa? Was she  
really the girl from the North, full of laughter and mirth? Or was she still Alayne Stone? And  
would she always be Alayne, even though she no longer kept the name.

  
She sighed, and dragged the knife across her flesh. The blood slowly dropped onto the roots of the  
weir wood. Her vision blurred and she felt a sensation of falling forward. The fog cleared, and the  
wise boy sat on his throne of roots and leaves. Sansa smiled and approached her brother, kissing  
his cheek. Sansa he breathed, his smile reaching his eyes. Bran looked so thin and frail. She  
wondered how he got any sustenance in his cave, deep in the North. She looked around, the  
bones of animals and dried leaves still littered the floor.

  
“How are you, brother?” she said quietly. She hoped the sadness in her voice was not detectable.

  
“I am the same as always.” His all-seeing eyes regarded her. “Something is troubling you…I can  
feel it…”

  
She smiled sadly. “I was remembering the times at Winterfell. How happy we all were. We’ll  
never be that happy again, will we?”

  
The wise boy regarded her thoughtfully. “Yesterday is gone, Sansa. We only have now and  
tomorrow. Maybe home isn’t where you came from, but where you are going.” Sansa frowned.

  
Winterfell was home. She was of the North. The blood of the First Men and the Starks. But, why  
had Riverrun felt like home? She was a Tully too. The blood of the River Kings. As Queen of the  
Seven Kingdoms, she would be starting a new blood line. And Winterfell would not be her seat.

  
She would have to get used to a new home. She had once lied to Lord Tyrion that King’s Landing  
was her home now. And it wasn’t then. But, could it be in the future? Could she cast away the  
pain and suffering she had felt there, and fill the Red Keep with love and laughter? Could she  
create a new beginning?

  
She stroked his arm soothingly, as she did when he was a child to lull him into sleep. “But, you?  
You’re all alone here…You could go back to Winterfell. Or come with me to the Capitol.”

  
“My place is here, Sansa. And I am not alone.” He turned, and Sansa followed his gaze. A small  
girl with large eyes, and short curly hair was standing in a corner. She slowly came forward, her  
eyes watching and guarded. “This is Lady Meera Reed. Her brother and her helped me find this  
place. He died trying to save me.”

  
Sansa smiled at the small girl. “Your father is a good man, Lady Meera. He must be so proud of  
you.”

  
The girl nodded, but remained solemn. She stood close to Bran. Sansa watched as they exchanged  
a look. The girl seemed protective of Bran. Sansa was glad for it. It would be awful to be all alone  
in the cave. At least he had a companion besides Ghost. Bran smiled at his sister. “Don’t worry  
about me, Sansa. I have few needs. And I am here to help you.”

  
Sansa nodded. There was limited time she could spend with her brother, and much she had to  
learn. “What happened to Jon?”

  
“There are many heart trees beyond the Wall. I have seen him. He rides beside a girl who’s face I  
cannot see. I cannot be certain but there is something strange about her. Her face is of a man, but  
when she prays to the old gods, her face changes to a girl. Ghost guards her. And Jon seems  
protective of her as well. But, she is a warrior. I cannot be certain…but I think it’s Arya.”

  
Sansa gasped. “Arya’s found Jon?”

  
Bran nodded. “If it is her, she’s alive. And Jon has begun to fight the White Walkers alongside  
her, but the final battle has not commenced… You are safe for now in the South. Sansa…  
Rickon…I still cannot find him.”

  
Sansa frowned. Her youngest brother was still lost. “Maybe he has not approached the old gods  
yet.”

  
“No…there is something else. Summer felt it. I think…Shaggydog is dead.”

  
Sansa felt her lip tremble. The direwolves were very connected to the Stark children. One dying  
did not bode well. “And Rickon…”

  
He shook his head. “I just don’t know.”

  
Sansa bowed her head in silence. Another loss. Perhaps it was better. The world was so full of  
cruelty. What would Rickon have turned out to be without any of his kin to support him? Did he  
even remember who he was? He was only three the last time she saw him. She wondered if he  
even remembered their faces. If he even remembered who he was and where he came from.

  
Bran broke through her thoughts. “There’s something strange going on in the Riverlands…I saw a  
woman…a hooded figure hung three men on a heart tree…I felt her, Sansa. It was very…odd.”

  
Sansa frowned. What was he talking about? “The Stoneheart woman? She is an outlaw who is  
hanging Freys. The house that murdered mother and Robb.”

  
“That’s just it. Her presence felt familiar. I felt as if I knew her. She was so full of anger…of  
longing and sadness.” His eyes bored into hers. Suddenly, he gasped.

  
“Sansa! Go back! Quickly!”

  
Sansa startled. “What…”

  
“There’s someone there. A foe. Go back!”

  
Her head began to swirl, and the world lit up in a multitude of colours and whirls. Her head felt as  
if it had been hit by a bag of bricks as she gained consciousness. She opened her eyes. She tried to  
stand, only she could not move her limbs. She glanced ahead, and saw the heart tree of Riverrun  
growing smaller. She looked down, and saw the ground moving below her. Sansa tried to lift her  
head, but she was still in a sleep-like state. Someone was carrying her. Hoisted her over their  
shoulder like a sack of beets.

  
In a daze, she felt for the dagger at her thigh, but it had fallen. Her finger throbbed where she cut  
it. Slowly, her vision cleared. Where were the guards? She began to squirm. “Put me down…”

  
she managed to get out. The person did not relent. She felt some of her strength return. “Put me  
down, I say!” she said louder. The person began to move faster. Sansa screamed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ooooh leaving you guys on a cliffhanger! muahahaha


	38. Family, Duty, Honour

Sansa screamed loudly, wanting to attract attention. A hand covered her mouth. She felt the  
person stop and dart into the shadows. The person leaned her against the stone wall. “Please, my  
lady. I mean you no harm. But, you need to come with me quickly and quietly.”

  
A female voice. The woman wore her visor down so Sansa was unable to see who it was. The  
Mormonts were fighting with Jon Snow. Which other female warrior did she know? “Why should  
I trust you? You were trying to kidnap me!”

  
“My lady, I’m trying to save you! Take you back to safety,” the woman said, sounding confused.

  
“I’ll have you know I was perfectly safe until you decided to intervene. I’ll call the guards,” Sansa  
snapped, her blues eyes flashing.

  
“My lady, please. I only want you to meet someone. And it cannot…it cannot be formal. But,  
please know this person has only love and concern for you.” The woman’s voice itself was etched  
with concern.

  
Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Who are you?”

  
“My name is Brienne of Tarth, my lady. And the person who wishes to meet you is Lady  
Stoneheart.” Her presence felt familiar. I felt as if I knew her. She was so full of anger…of longing  
and sadness. If Bran knew this woman, there was a high chance Sansa did too. She hesitated, and  
lifted the woman knight’s visor. Why should she trust her? She did not know her. This woman  
had somehow surpassed the castle defences and entered her private vigil in the courtyard. She  
should not go alone, unguarded. Stoneheart was an outlaw, but something deep inside her told her  
not to be afraid.

  
Sansa kept her gaze steady. “Take me to her.”

  
As they made their way down the stone staircase leading into the dungeons of Riverrun, Sansa  
loosened her navy cloak letting it fall to the ground.

  
She followed the Maid of Tarth down the winding staircase. The air smelled dank and musty, as  
they descended deeper into the bowels of the castle. A chill crept up her spine, and she grabbed a  
torch from the wall scone, lighting the way. She did not know what fate held for her below the  
castle floors.

  
The Maid of Tarth stopped suddenly, and turned back to Sansa. “Do not be afraid, my lady. We  
mean you no harm.”

  
Sansa glared at her. “How did you enter the castle when it is surrounded by a moat?”

  
“Because the woman who led us here grew up in these castle walls,” the woman replied simply.

  
She stepped off the last step, and moved deeper into the dungeons. Sansa took a deep breath, and  
followed her. There was a circle of light ahead. They came upon four men standing in a circle.

  
Sansa held her flaming torch in front of her in order to see them better. It was half a light, and half  
a weapon. The men were dressed in shabby, thread-bare clothes. One had half his nose missing  
and wore a cloak that may have once been yellow. Another had long greasy brown hair, and a  
devious smile. It was the third man Sansa recognized. He wore a greasy leather jerkin, and a  
wrinkled smile.

  
“Harwin?” Sansa asked, sounding uncertain. Harwin had been a guard in her father’s household.

  
He had accompanied them to King’s Landing. She remembered Meryn Trant had unseated him at  
the joust at the Tourney of the Hand.

  
He stepped forward, and bowed slightly. “At your service, milady.”

  
“What are you doing here?” Sansa asked, her eyes wide in surprise. Her father had sent him along  
with Beric Dondarrion and other knights to find Gregor Clegane. When he was still Hand of the  
King. Harwin confirmed that tale, and added he was still loyal to House Stark. Sansa raised her  
eyebrows at that, and eyed the group suspiciously.

  
The fourth man, a tall, skinny person with a receding hairline and faded red robes stepped  
forward. “My lady, thank you for seeing us. My name is Thoros of Myr.”

  
Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Well? Where is this Lady Stoneheart who has been waiting so eagerly  
to speak to me?”

  
Thoros spoked slowly. “Lady Stark…we…we had to be certain it was you. When we saw the  
direwolf banner flying above Riverrun, she-she knew you had returned.”

  
“Returned? I have never been here before,” she said sarcastically.

  
Thoros frowned slightly. “Please, do not be alarmed… The Freys slashed her throat from ear to  
ear. When we found her by the river she was three days dead. Harwin begged me to give her the  
kiss of life, but it had been too long. I would not do it, so Lord Beric put his lips to hers instead,  
and the flame of life passed from him to her. And... she rose. May the Lord of Light protect us.  
She rose.”

  
Sansa frowned. If she heard him correctly, the woman had been killed by the Freys, then this  
man’s god allowed someone else to die for her to be reborn. But, to what end? Why was this  
woman so important that Lord Beric, a knight, would sacrifice his life for a common woman? The  
fact that she had been reborn did not unsettle Sansa. The same had happened to Jon through the  
Old Gods or Melisandre’s Lord of Light. But, three days in a river…the corpse would already  
decay and swell in the water. And the mind…Jon had warged into Ghost to preserve himself. And  
the frozen North had preserved his body long enough for Melisandre to take it away. “I wish to  
see her.”

  
“She is not how you remember her, my lady. Please…” He nodded at her, and Sansa glanced  
behind him. A figure in a dark grey cloak was slowly making her way forward from behind the  
small party. Sansa squinted, trying to make her out in the darkness. Brienne of Tarth was looking  
at her with sympathy, and Sansa felt a bubble of annoyance rise up in her. Why was there so much  
allure and mystery surrounding this unknown woman? And was she a lady at all?

  
The woman stepped into the low light. Her hood was drawn, and Sansa could not see her face.

  
The room was silent and the air heavy. They all waited in anticipation. Slowly, the woman lifted  
her head, and her eyes met steel blue. Sansa gasped in horror. The flesh had an unnatural pale  
murkiness to it, littered with scars and deep red scratches. Her cheeks were ravaged and shredded,  
bearing the muscle beneath them. The woman was almost bald, and what little hair she had left  
was white as snow. Sansa tried to hide her horror. She was just an old crone. She lifted the torch a  
bit higher and regarded the woman.

  
“I am sorry, but I do not know you,” she said evenly, trying to not let her fear show in her voice.

  
The man in the red robes sighed. “My lady, she cannot speak for her throat was cut to the bone.

  
But, she remembers. And she has wanted to set eyes on you for so long.” There was a strange  
scratching sound coming from the woman. Sansa felt like covering her ears, the sound was so  
painful and unnatural.

  
The red-robed man smiled sadly. “She is glad to see you.”

  
Sansa narrowed her eyes. Was this a mummer’s farce? Everyone was being so guarded and  
cryptic. “Who are you?” She looked into the woman’s eyes and the same feeling Bran described  
came over her. Bitter sadness and longing, and a hint of anger.

  
Brienne of Tarth spoke quietly. “I did not recognize her either Lady Sansa, even though I swore a  
sacred vow to her. But, she is yours. Lady Catelyn was slain at the Red Wedding and dumped in  
the river. But, she was reborn. The woman you see is what is left of Lady Catelyn.”

  
Sansa felt like all the air was sucked out of the room. This could not be her mother. Her mother  
was tall and elegant and beautiful. With shining blue eyes and luscious auburn hair. “You’re lying,  
all of you. I’ll have you all arrested.” She turned to run up the stairs, but the Maid of Tarth held  
her arm.

  
“Unhand me, Lady Brienne. Immediately!” she shouted. The woman dropped her arm as if it was  
a hot coal, and Sansa heard the shrill voice again.

  
Harwin stepped forward. “My lady, I swear to you that the woman before you is Catelyn Stark. I  
have known you since you were a babe, and the Lady Catelyn long before. I would not lie to you,  
my lady.”

  
Sansa turned and glared at him. “She cannot speak and I cannot understand the sounds that leave  
her lips. I cannot trust the words of men I do not know. And who are breaking the laws of the land  
and raiding villages? How can I be sure of the truth? My mother is dead along with my brother.”

  
The group hesitated, but the woman implored Sansa with her eyes. The eyes bothered Sansa more  
than anything. They were dark and bloodshot and so full of sadness that it hit Sansa to her very  
core. She looked away.

  
“I can vouch for her!”

  
She turned in the direction of the voice, and from behind Lady Stoneheart came the infamous  
missing man. Blonde hair scraggly and to his shoulders, but his face as arrogant as ever stood Ser  
Jaime Lannister.

  
“Lady Sansa, I swore an oath to your mother to take up no arms against Starks or Tullys, and to  
return her daughters to her. Lady Brienne was a part of that vow. We promised to return you to  
Lady Catelyn. Only she died, and you disappeared without a trace. The vow then became about  
finding you and keeping you safe. My wretched sister sent me to bring peace to the Riverlands  
and I have done so without shedding a drop of blood. I was finished and ready to return home  
when Lady Catelyn found me again. She was going to hang me, but I made good on my vow. I  
was going to go to the Vale with Brienne, where rumour had it your aunt Lysa married Petyr  
Baelish. We thought you would go there. Only the massacre at the Twins…you were already  
coming with an army of your own…” He trailed off.

  
Wretched sister. Those words would have interested her very much at another time, except this  
situation was entirely different. The woman with the sad eyes implored Sansa once again. Sansa  
bit her lip, not wanting to face the woman. “Ser Jaime, you are wanted for many crimes. Leave  
aside this party right now, I have every right to arrest you.”

  
“Arrest me, my lady. But, I have only ever acted in your interests. You were my last chance for  
honour, Sansa Stark. And you still are…” Honour? What did a Lannister know of honour and  
decency? Lying and deceit came easily to them, not concern. It was high summer for House  
Lannister, but Winter is coming for them all. The hooded woman made another shrill noise and  
Sansa flinched. She was her reason for being here. The remains of who was once her mother.

  
Could she be?

  
Sansa moved from her spot beside the stairs, and stood before the old woman. Her face was  
destroyed, ravaged and ripped. Sansa held the torch higher and stared deep into her eyes. It was  
the same blue she loved as a child. The same blue of Brynden Tully. Her own blue. She felt tears  
at the back of her throat.

  
Ser Jaime spoke quietly. “She said you would grow into a maiden more beautiful than she ever  
was. She said men would say you had her look, and so you do.” I do, Sansa mused. She felt the  
tears spring to her eyes. I must be strong as my lady mother. Why were they all being paraded  
before her? The ghosts of her past. They were all supposed to be dead and buried. Only they kept  
coming back for her, long after she had set them free. “Mother…” she whispered.

  
The old crone’s mouth turned upwards in what could have been a smile. Her mother once had a  
beautiful smile. How cruel the gods were. She had been her mother’s favourite child. Her and  
Robb, she knew. She died alongside her son, and now met her daughter. The woman reached into  
her robes and pulled out a spiked bronze and iron crown. She brushed aside a stray curl, and  
nested the crown upon Sansa’s head. The tears flowed freely now. The shrill voice spoke.

  
“She says, you are Queen of the North now,” said Harwin quietly. Was her mother proud of her?  
She crowned me herself. Oh, the gods were cruel. Her parents should be alive. She should be in  
Winterfell, laughing along with Robb and Jon as Arya hopped about, and little Rickon whined  
and cried about Bran not sharing his toy horse. But, it could not be. That life was gone. The past  
was the past, the future is all that’s worth discussing. “I told you I’d be a queen someday,” Sansa  
whispered.

  
A shaky, cold hand brushed her cheek. Sansa flinched, the cold unsettling her and bringing her  
out of her dreams. This was wrong. This was unnatural. Her mother should be laid to rest. She  
had returned to her childhood home. She should be laid to rest in the Tully tradition. This woman  
was not alive. Reborn or not, she had one foot in the valley of death. I saw her again, I’ve said my  
goodbyes.

  
Footsteps echoed down the staircase. Brienne of Tarth drew her sword. The four men surrounded  
her. Sansa pushed forward. “Step aside! Those are my men.” The vagrants did not move.

  
“Sansa!” she heard him call.

  
Petyr. She kicked Thoros of Myr in the shin and he fell. Before they could grab her, Sansa pulled  
free and ran to Brienne. Petyr came into view, along with six guards. He frowned at the sight  
before him, his eyes widening when he saw Jaime Lannister.

  
“Baelish! Now there’s a friendly face I’m glad to see,” said Ser Jaime charmingly.

  
Sansa stepped around Brienne, and into Petyr’s arms. He looked at her, half with concern and half  
in astonishment. “Are you hurt, sweetling?” She shook her head.

  
The shrill voice spoke. The four men withdrew their weapons. “Lady Sansa. Step away from that  
man. He is no friend of yours,” said Lady Brienne her eyes on Lord Baelish and her sword drawn.

  
“Enough of this! Who are you to tell me who my friends and who my foes are? I made my own  
enemies,” said Sansa sharply.

  
The hooded woman came forward, her cold eyes settling on Lord Baelish. Her shrill voice spoke.

  
“He is dangerous, Lady Sansa. He cannot be trusted,” said Harwin.

  
Sansa stared at the woman who had once been her mother. “And he has saved your daughter.  
Mother, I am sorry but you cannot harm Lord Petyr.”

  
Petyr stared at Sansa in astonishment and looked between the hooded woman and Sansa. “Cat?”  
he said, his eyes widening and his mouth falling open in disbelief.

  
The woman let out a wail, and made for Petyr’s throat, only Sansa dashed between them. The  
woman hit her like a brick wall, and they both fell to their feet. Sansa held the woman down with  
all her strength. My mother died at the Twins. This is not Lady Catelyn. My mother was kind and  
loving, with a heart of gold. This woman was a shadow of her former self. My mother deserves  
love and peace. And to be honoured. “You cannot harm him,” she whispered. “Lord Baelish has  
done many wrongs, but he has protected me and kept me alive. I would not be here today if it was  
not for him. You have to understand that. I know all that he has done, but that was a long time ago  
and it has brought me where I am today. We are both different people now. People change all the  
time, for better or for worse. And I…I forgive him. I have found Bran and Arya. You do not need  
to worry anymore...”

  
There was a deep sigh. Sansa sat up, assessing what was once Lady Catelyn. For a second, for the  
briefest of instances, she saw her as she had been. Her true self. Her porcelain skin. Shining blue  
eyes and long auburn hair. The warm smiles and tight hugs. She would remember her like that.

  
The way she was meant to be remembered. And honoured. Then, Lady Stoneheart, Mother  
Merciless, Lady Catelyn of Houses Tully and Stark faded into dust.

  
Her daughter, with the bronze and iron crown that belonged to her late brother sat on the cold  
floor, with tears flowing down her cheeks. The Queen Sansa had endured much suffering and  
pain. She had a skin of steel and heart of iron. But, nothing felt so raw as having to lose a parent  
all over again.

  
Strong arms guided her to her feet. She breathed in the scent of mint amongst the dank, musty air.

  
My mother died long ago. This was just a memory. She cleared her throat, and wiped her tears.

  
“Lord Baelish, arrest these men. And bring Ser Jaime before the Great Hall.”

  
She turned for the stairs as the six guards took hold of the five men and one woman and none of  
them resisted. She paused mid-step. “Please gather the ashes into an urn.”

  
Family. Duty. Honour. Lady Catelyn would always be honoured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two chapters on one weekend! Woo! Hope you guys enjoyed that. Let me know  
> what you think :)  
> I like these super long chapters hehe. JAIMES BEEN FOUND.


	39. Lion of Lannister

“You do realize you have little to no reason to execute me,” said Ser Jaime Lannister proudly. “I  
have upheld all the vows I swore to your mother since she freed me.”

  
He sat before the three of them, Queen Sansa, Lord Baelish and the Blackfish in the Great Hall.

  
Lord Brynden did not believe her when she first told him about the truth of Lady Stoneheart,  
telling her she had been dreaming or seen a vision. But, seeing as Lord Baelish had been witness  
and he was known for being a pragmatic man, not easily swept away by delusions and fantasies,  
he was forced to accept her tale. She still doubted her great uncle believed her entirely.

  
“You do not have a reputation for being an honourable man, Lannister. You stabbed your own  
king in the back!” sounded the Blackfish.

  
“Oh for the love of the gods! How many times must I answer for one action? Had I stabbed him in  
the belly instead, would you be proud?” said Ser Jaime, his jaw clenching in anger. “He would  
have burned it all down. The city, the people, the whole lot of them. You recall my little brother’s  
trick with the wildfire, Lady Sansa? You were there as I’ve been told. Aerys would have done far  
worse. I rid the realm of an evil king and yet every day I must atone for my alleged crimes.”

  
Sansa narrowed her eyes. “Perhaps, Ser Jaime. But, you are still accused of incest and treason.

  
Passing your own offspring as the crown children is a crime.”

  
“Are you sitting on the Iron Throne and Queen of the Realm, my lady? I shall not answer for  
those crimes today,” he said flatly.

  
“Lady Sansa is no longer merely a lady, Ser Jaime. The Lords of the North, Vale and Riverlands  
have declared her as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. She could very well accuse you of those  
crimes and have you answer for them,” said Lord Baelish, with a raise of his brow.

  
Ser Jaime chuckled. “You’re an interesting fellow. How long have you played the double card?  
Were you a part of the Stark-Tully cause all along as my father gave you wealth and titles?”

  
“For the titles, I can thank your father. But, I’m afraid the wealth is entirely my own,” mused Lord  
Petyr, clasping his hands.

  
“How can you call me a man without honour when Lord Baelish is no different, I ask you?” said  
Ser Jaime, crossing his arms.

  
Sansa cleared her throat. “As I said earlier, people change for better or for worse. Lord Baelish has  
done many wrongs, but he has corrected his sins.”

  
“You have it in your heart to forgive him, then? He’s played the double card for so long, he could  
stab you in the back when you are no longer the people’s favourite,” mused Ser Jaime, inspecting  
his fingernails.

  
Ser Jaime was looking far too proud for Sansa’s liking. She wanted to wipe the arrogant smirk off  
this face the same way she had done to the rest of her enemies. But, why had her mother trusted  
him? Lady Catelyn had always been a good judge of character, she knew that now. Never trust a  
Greyjoy. And Theon betrayed Robb all the same. Stop climbing the walls, and so Bran fell. Don’t  
marry Joffrey. And her whole family might still be alive had Sansa not begged her family to allow  
her to become Queen. She settled her steel blue eyes on Jaime Lannister, challenging him.

  
“Lord Baelish is not the one on trial. Why did my mother trust you?”

  
He shrugged his shoulders. “She had no choice. The Young Wolf wasn’t willing to trade two girls  
for me. Funny, isn’t it? Your family always had the image of being so close and tight-knit, yet  
Robb didn’t think you were valuable enough.”

  
His mocking tone was really beginning to irk her. “Perhaps my brother had a better mind for  
military strategy than my mother did. She only wanted her daughters back. Robb knew his men  
wanted you dead. And the Lannisters would not release me… Do you know how much I meant to  
them? I was their key to the North.”

  
“And now, you’re Lord Baelish’s key to everything,” he said sarcastically.

  
The Blackfish stood. “Careful, Kingslayer. You will respect my niece if you wish to keep your  
head, pretty man.”

  
Ser Jaime raised his hands in mock submission. “Apologies, my lady. I did not mean to offend.

  
Lord Brynden, I made good on my promise. You once asked me not too long ago where Lady  
Catelyn’s daughters were. Luckily, one of them is returned to you. If not by my hand, then by  
another’s. But, Stoneheart or your beloved Cat did not kill me by her own hand for a reason. That  
must count for something.”

  
“And what would that be, Ser Jaime?” asked Lord Baelish, leaning forward.

  
“I was always going to find Lady Sansa. That was my task with Lady Brienne before the rumours  
of your return came with the wind. You say you have it in your heart to forgive and accept that  
people change, Lady Sansa. My actions speak for themselves,” he said.

  
Some of the arrogance had slipped away from his face and Ser Jaime Lannister stood bare before  
her. Sansa watched the way his eyes no longer shone with loud confidence and his mouth  
drooped slightly. He was right. She did have it in her heart to forgive. But, she also believed in  
revenge. Boltons. Freys. Lannisters. How different were they from each other? The Lannisters  
had caused her more personal pain than any of the other families. They had moved the Boltons  
and Freys into place, as they stripped the power from the Starks and Tullys. They beat her and  
humiliated her, and forced her into a marriage. But, Lord Tyrion had been kind. He saw his family  
for what they truly were, and did not have a good relationship with his father, sister or nephew.

  
But, what of Ser Jaime? He was the Lion of Lannister. The Golden Knight. He was everyone’s  
favourite brother, son, uncle. Would it not be a slap on Cersei’s face to send her her twin’s head  
and have it served to her for dinner, as Joffrey had once mocked her? No. That would be acting  
no different from a Lannister. And Sansa was no Lannister. Something Ser Jaime said earlier  
crossed her mind. My wretched sister.

  
“Lady Sansa, whatever you wish to do with me is your right. But, I ask you to set Brienne of  
Tarth free. She is innocent of any crime. She swore an oath to your mother and would gladly  
serve you now. She would give her life for you if need be. Please do not let her association with  
me allow you to harbour any ill feelings towards her,” said Jaime quietly.

  
Standing up for another? That was a selfless act she did not expect the Kingslayer to do. She  
exchanged a look with Lord Baelish, but his cool eyes revealed nothing.

  
She turned to Ser Jaime once again. “Lady Brienne’s fate is her own. But, I do have a question for  
you, Ser Jaime. What is your relationship with your sister as it stands?”

  
His eyebrows shot up, and he let out a bitter laugh. “My sister? My lady, I've lost a hand, a father,  
a son, a daughter, a sister, and a lover. And yet they keep telling me House Lannister won this  
war... My sister hates me. I set my brother free, and because of that he killed my father. I have my  
own atonement to answer for.”

  
Sansa took a moment to collect her thoughts. Something in his tone unsettled her. How far we all  
fall from grace... “Ser Jaime, I will allow you to live.”

  
His eyes shot up, and a smile came upon his face, his proud green eyes shining.

  
“I have a few conditions. That you continue to uphold your vow to my mother and by extension  
to me. That you continue to take up no arms against Starks or Tullys, but that you fight alongside  
us on the road to King’s Landing, which would involve taking up arms against your sister and  
your last son. And that you do so completely and without any resentment. Can you do this?”

  
Ser Jaime stared at her intently, as if seeing her for the first time. She was used to it. Many thought  
she was dead. Disappeared. And what people did know of Sansa Stark was a version of what she  
once was. The lost, shallow little bird. Many were surprised to see a red wolf, a Stark in place of  
the little bird. He slowly nodded. “I can, my lady. I only ask that the same can be extended to  
Brienne of Tarth.”

  
Sansa nodded. “It shall be.”

  
She stood, and whispered in her uncle’s ear. “Question the red priest from Myr. We need to  
inquire if there are any more members in the Brotherhood without Banners. We do not know how  
the smallfolk view them, and it would not be wise to execute them if the smallfolk view them as  
saviours. If they possess a larger army, it may be to our advantage to have them join us.”

  
Her uncle nodded, and quietly left the chamber. Sansa exchanged a look with Lord Baelish. A  
small smirk played on his features. Petyr wanted Jaime dead. But, could he be of more use to them  
alive and on their side?

  
Lord Baelish unsheathed his dagger, and cut the ropes that bound Ser Jaime. They stood face to  
face, Ser Jaime two heads taller than Lord Baelish. But, Lord Baelish matched him in intimidation.

  
“There is one other condition to saving your skin, Lannister.”

  
Ser Jaime cocked and eyebrow. “Oh?”

  
Lord Baelish chuckled. “You are the heir to Casterly Rock and Lord Paramount of the  
Westerlands. We’re currently at war with your people.”

  
A look of realization passed on Ser Jaime’s face. “You want me to bring them into the fold…”  
Lord Baelish clapped Ser Jaime’s shoulder. “Good. You’ve figured it out. I can’t imagine they all  
would want to rally to a Stark. But, you are their liege lord and they have to obey. Think about  
it…if your life is worth the price.”

  
He strode out of the hall. Ser Jaime stood unbounded and free, with only Sansa Stark in the room.

  
He had a decision to make.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah Jaime Lannister....


	40. Master of the Drearfort

A thick fog hung over the countryside, as the large army weaved their way through it. It did  
nothing to stop the crowds of smallfolk, or what was left of them, from coming out from their  
towns and mills. Some of them wore smiles on their faces. Others were more wary. But, all of  
them whispered. Whispered of the wolf queen. Her unexpected appearance brought allure and  
mystery to their otherwise quiet and monotonous lives. The rumours had started after the boy king  
died, choking at his own wedding. Some claimed she was an enchantress and tricked the high  
lords into following her. Others said she had the ability to turn into a great wolf with wings and  
fly. Still others claimed it was her ice blue eyes that led men to fall in love with her and fight to die  
for her. But, perhaps the simplest of all was that the wolf queen was just a kind soul, who wanted  
to bring a new dawn after an era of blood and violence.

  
Petyr Baelish balanced his ledger, taking note of all the destroyed towns and burned wheat fields.  
The war had ravaged the countryside and the civil fighting and general destruction brought about  
by raiding parties and rogue lords was far worse. Fields flooded with salt, whole towns burned  
down. It was madness. The Riverlands had seen the worst of the war. But, Lord Baelish did not  
miss how his red-haired beauty seemed to raise hope in the people around her. She insisted on  
sharing their food and supplies, and spoke of promises of peace and prosperity. That was more  
than any of the smallfolk could have wished for. Many had never even met the lord in the nearest  
castle. Many hated the nobility. After all, it was the smallfolk who suffered while the high lords  
played their game of thrones. It made no difference to them who sat on the iron throne. Kings  
lived and died, but their lives had no improved in thousands of years. The serfdom had shaped the  
land. The gears in the constantly turning mind of Petyr Baelish were in motion. A new world of  
peace and prosperity indeed. His mind turned to the events that transpired over the last several  
weeks.

  
In the end, Thoros of Myr had convinced the second battleon of the Brotherhood without Banners  
to join the Wolf Queen. Many had separated after Lord Beric’s death, but this new queen. She  
spoke of love and peace, and a new dawn. Ultimately, the Brotherhood simply wanted their lives  
to go back to normal and perhaps even improve. The Lannisters, Baratheons and Targaryens had  
caused chaos. But, they held no animosity for the young girl sitting atop a magnificent white  
horse. A thousand men were added to their already growing army. The number did not matter as  
much as the image did. The Brotherhood represented the smallfolk and the smallfolk placed a  
greater trust in the Queen of Promise.

  
The man riding to his left had made and unmade kings, or so he claimed, but Ser Jaime Lannister  
also claimed that Sansa Stark was his last chance for honour. When Lord Baelish had queried after  
whether his vow with Lady Catelyn was fulfilled since he found one daughter and returned her to  
safety, the handsome lord simply shrugged and replied that Sansa was the key to everything. His  
demeanor suggested he was trying to be nonchalant, but Petyr knew better. There was a glimmer  
that came over those green eyes that another person might have mistaken for lust or greed. But,  
Ser Jaime did not desire the Queen... Ser Jaime did not lust after his Queen of Love and Beauty.

  
But, his eyes were always trained on the auburn-haired beauty and Lord Baelish wondered what  
he hoped she could give him.

  
Lord Baelish was surprised when Ser Jaime accepted the challenge to bring the Westerlands  
against the Lannister queen. After all, the Lannister men and their houses had spent years warring  
with the Starks and Tullys. But, the minute Ser Jaime marched onto the battlefield, a hush fell  
upon the warring soldiers. Everyone knew the face of the Kingslayer, the Lion of Lannister. It  
was at the battle for the Golden Tooth, the small castle that stood guard over the Hill Road. The  
men of House Lefford had been charged with taking Edmure Tully and his pregnant wife to  
Casterly Rock not too long ago. As Ser Jaime strode onto the battlefield, many believed their  
beloved Lion would lead them against the Young Falcon and his men. But, Ser Jaime,  
accompanied by Lord Mallister of Seagard ordered a surrender. The Westerlands would take no  
arms against the Tullys, Starks or Arryns and their men. And in turn, they would not be harmed or  
expected to lend support to Queen Sansa Stark. The men had pointed fingers and called Ser Jaime  
a shadow of his father, and a traitor. But, one hand less or not, he was still the Kingslayer and their  
liege lord and commanded a lot of respect. After all, did the Westerlands with only eight thousand  
men to guard the entire stretch expect to win against three other realms? Of course, Ser Jaime  
brought three thousand men of his own from Casterly Rock, along with the true Lord Paramount  
of the Riverlands and his newborn son, Elston Tully.

  
As they had entered the gates of Riverrun, Petyr Baelish spied the auburn-haired beauty standing  
with her uncle. He had watched on as she embraced her uncle tightly and cooed over her new  
cousin and aunt, despite having Frey blood. And Petyr Baelish had watched as Sansa Stark  
approached the Young Falcon, and he followed her into the castle. Ser Jaime also saw and  
smirked at Lord Baelish. Petyr returned the facial expression, and dismounted his horse. He had  
received many strange looks from some of the other lords as he arrived at the Golden Tooth with  
Ser Jaime and it wasn’t merely from being with the infamous man.

  
…  
(flashback)

  
She walked three paces ahead of him, her heels clicking against the marble floor. She pulled Lord  
Harrold Hardyng into a chamber, and bolted the door behind them. He was watching her  
carefully. She shot daggers at him with her icy glare.

  
“When I asked you that night if there was something you needed to say, why did you remain  
silent?”

  
Lord Harry appeared startled and look down, abashed. He cleared his throat. “Your Grace, I did  
not ruin your reputation. I am loyal to you as always.”

  
Sansa rounded on him. “Then why did Lord Mors and Lord Blackwood not want to greet me  
upon their return?”

  
Lord Harry hesitated, then stood straighter. “Because they are afraid you are being used. And it  
troubles them.”

  
Sansa scoffed. “Used? What lies have you been spreading behind my back, my lord?”

  
“Only what I fear. That Lord Baelish is not an honourable man and is tempting and seducing you.  
You are not to blame, my Queen. You are innocent of the ways of men, and women are easily  
drawn to sweet-spoken words and promises--”

  
She cut him off. “Women are easily fooled, my lord? Do I look like I am a fool? I who have  
destroyed my enemies and killed men with my own hands? I suggest you check yourself, ser.”

  
“I meant no offense, my Queen. Only…many of the men still mistrust Littlefinger. Your own  
uncle, Lord Edmure was not pleased to see him…”

  
“My uncle and Lord Baelish have known each other since they were children. Their mutual  
dislike of one another stems from childhood. My concern, my lord, is that you have overstepped  
your boundaries. Were you not the first man I brought my secret to in the Eyrie? Were you not the  
first man to pledge allegiance to me as Queen of the North to return my birth right to me? Did you  
not fight and bleed for me my lord, and witness the defeat of many who wished to wipe out the  
Stark name? You were also the first to swear allegiance to me as Queen of the Realm. Is this how  
you treat your Queen? By spreading lies about her and causing her own men to question her  
mind?”

  
Lord Harry looked aghast. He quickly got down on one knee and knelt. “Your Grace, I only  
spoke my fears out of concern for your well-being. You are not a weak woman, please do not  
think so low of me. Many women would not be able to accomplish what you have. Please…  
forgive me.”

  
Sansa crossed her arms. “I fear you have marked my reputation. There are a few men who know I  
am no longer a maiden, and probably either think of me as wanton or weak-willed. What will you  
do to remedy their opinions, my lord?”

  
“Anything you ask, my Queen.”

  
Sansa smiled slightly, and gave her hand to Lord Harry. He swiftly bent over it and kissed her  
ring. “Arise, Lord Harry. You should have spoken your feelings that very night. But, now you  
have another important task and will be the first to know of another secret I have been  
harbouring.” His eyes implored her, and he flashed a wide grin. Sansa smiled. It was so easy to  
trap a man who still believed in chivalry and songs. “You will go and tell all the high lords that  
Lord Baelish and I are in love, and have been for a very long time. We kept our affair a secret, so  
as not to disturb battle preparations. But, since our journey to Harrenhal will commence in a few  
days, we will marry before the old gods in the Isle of Faces. Do you understand, my lord?”

  
Lord Harry nodded and bowed before her. “My Queen.” He strode out of the room with a sense  
of purpose and almost knocked into Lord Baelish, who was waiting outside the door. Harry  
looked shocked and swiftly flashed him a wide smile and a quick bow and departed.

  
Lord Baelish entered the solar, an amused look on his face. Sansa smiled. He had been gone for  
several weeks and she missed his presence. “Is it wise to trust him with that information?” Ah, so  
he had been eavesdropping. She expected nothing less from him.

  
Sansa bit her lip seductively. “Honestly, the Lord of the Vale will look like a terrible gossip.” She  
giggled. “They would have known in a few days as it is. Either way, they will have to accept our  
match. I’ve already given myself to you.”

  
Petyr reached her and wrapped his arms around her waist, giving her a sharp tug. Sansa smirked  
and wrapped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his. He chuckled softly. “A  
deflowered maiden. They will hate me.”

  
“I’m sure that wouldn’t be such a far cry from how many of them already think of you,” she  
mused, her blue eyes full of mischief.

  
He buried his face in her hair, inhaling the sweet scent of her. “They trust you, my little Queen.”  
Sansa hummed as he reached down and gave her breast a hard squeeze. “And soon they will trust  
you. After all, you’re about to surrender your title of Lord Paramount back to its rightful owner.”  
“Only to ask them to accept me as their King.”  
“Oh, I don’t know…you could just be my Prince Consort.” She laughed as he whirled her around.  
…  
(present day)  
“You did not seem like the daydreaming type to me, Littlefinger.” The arrogant voice of Ser Jaime  
broke through Petyr’ thoughts. “But, I suppose love will melt even the most devious of hearts.”  
Petyr gave him a curt smile. “You tell me, Ser Jaime. Besides your dear sister, I never thought  
another woman would win your heart.”

  
Ser Jaime laughed, but did not comment any further on the matter. Petyr preferred to ride with  
Lannister. Better than Edmure Tully with his cold looks and isolated words. The Kingslayer and  
Petyr had not been friends in King’s Landing during the days of King Robert, but they had had a  
few nicely bandied words many years ago. Petyr sensed Ser Jaime admired him in some way or  
another. Perhaps, the man admired cunning and resourcefulness when put to the right cause. He  
was surprised when Ser Jaime confessed to him he always thought Littlefinger was the right man  
for Hand of the King, and was a better pick over Eddard Stark.

  
Petyr pushed the compliment aside. It would not do well to become too attached to the Kingslayer.

  
Not that he attached very easily to anyone. But, Sansa and him had not decided what to do with  
Ser Jaime after they overtook King’s Landing. If he proved himself trustworthy, he would be  
allowed to live. Otherwise…Cersei had always said Jaime and her came into this world together  
and would die together.

  
His mind was drawn to the pretty laughter of his bride-to-be ahead. He smiled inwardly as he saw  
her joke with Edmure and Roslin Tully. He was glad she had some family left in this world. She  
never told him what happened to Jon Snow, or ever mentioned Bran Stark again in his presence,  
even though he knew she still communicated with him through her heart trees. She even carried a  
small sack of weirwood seeds and would plant them in the ground as they made their way through  
the Riverlands, more soldiers adding to their army as they passed. He wanted only for her  
happiness and was glad he could provide that for her in some way.

  
“Fuck! I never thought I’d see this place again,” mused Ser Jaime. He turned to Petyr, a grin on  
his face. “How does it feel to be home, Baelish?”

  
Petyr looked ahead, and saw the tall and blackened looming towers of his lordship. He smirked.

  
Lord of the Drearfort and Sheepshit. Master of Coin. Lord of Harrenhal. King of the Seven  
Kingdoms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gifting you guys with 2 chapters today! And this one a super long one :D  
> So, this chapter was meant to be through Petyr's eyes as he thinks about the past  
> events in his rational and logical way. This chapter is meant to tie up loose ends and  
> set the stage for the chapters going forward, which will ultimately lead us to KL. Let  
> me know if anything is confusing so far, or if there's anything unclear. I obviously cut  
> out some scenes due to my hectic schedule, but they would have been Harry+Sansa  
> (which is why I included the flashback) and BwB stuff, as well as battle prep, so I  
> think this suffices :)


	41. Harrenhal

The mist cleared, and in the near distance Sansa saw the tall, looming curtain of massive towers.

  
She saw the lake, and across the huge expanse of trees that made up the Isle of Faces. As they  
neared, an eerie feeling came over her.

  
Harrenhal. She remembered the stories of how Harren the Black enslaved thousands of peaceful  
riverlords and their people to build the monstrous castle. Five towers reaching into the heavens  
like grasping fingers, blackened and burned. It was massive. Built to withstand a force from all the  
armies of Westeros combined. But, it was dragons the sealed Harren’s fate. Stone heats quickly,  
and Harren and his sons all but roasted to death in the great castle. She remembered the stories of  
how House Tully joined with Aegon Targaryen and his sister-wives and flushed the Iron Islanders  
back to the sea. But, now it was cursed.

  
Every family that had been gifted the castle had withered away into extinction. House Harroway.

  
House Towers. House Strong. House Lothson. House Whent. Fallen into decay, just like the  
castle itself. Sansa shuddered as the army entered the main gates. The gatehouse itself was larger  
than any she had seen, as large as the Great Keep of Winterfell. The walls were blackened and  
fissured, as if molten lava had been poured upon them. She remembered how Old Nan told them  
how the dragon fire had melted the stone and allowed it to flow like molten candlewax. The five  
massive towers stood out. The names were long forgotten. New names, far more chilling had been  
given to them. Tower of Dread. Widow’s Tower. Wailing Tower. Tower of Ghosts. And the  
Kingspyre Tower, where Harren himself had burned into ash.

  
“Chilling, isn’t it?” Her uncle Edmure came up behind her. “I’ve always hated this place. The  
happiest person can go mad here.”

  
Sansa nodded. It was eerily quiet, despite the clinking of armour and neighing of horses. There  
was no wind. “Some of the men refuse to enter the castle. They would much rather prefer to camp  
outside the walls.”

  
Sansa frowned. “This castle is large enough to hold a million men. Never mind an army of thirtyfive  
thousand.”

  
“Be as that may. This place is cursed.” Sansa glanced at her uncle, his blue eyes peering at the  
large towers. His expression was grim.

  
“Ghosts are not real, my lady. I stayed in this castle with Ser Jaime when Roose Bolton held it. A  
large host makes the place less forbearing,” sounded Brienne of Tarth. Sansa turned to the large  
woman. Brienne had proved herself to be a faithful person. She begged to be Sansa’s swornshield  
and continue the oath she had sworn to her mother. She reminded Sansa that she served her  
mother in life and in death, and would always protect her daughter. Sansa consented and the  
woman hardly left her side since.

  
Lord Edmure gave a wry smile. “A large host might. But, even then we cannot fill all five towers.  
I suggest you take the apartments in the Kingspyre, Your Grace. They are the largest and have a  
full view of the courtyard.”

  
Sansa nodded, and turned to glance around the courtyard, trying to find Lord Baelish. Lord Harry  
had kept good on his promise and delivered her message to all the high lords. No sooner than a  
few hours later, she assembled all the high lords in the Great Hall of Riverrun and broke the news  
of their betrothal. Some of them scowled. Bronze Yohn voiced his disapproval, saying it was  
hardly appropriate and she was already married. She reminded them all that she kept the old gods  
and the new, and Lord Tyrion and her had never consummated the marriage and were married  
under the Seven. Lord Baelish and her would be married by the old gods. It appeared Lord  
Redfort, the first to guess their relationship while she had still been at Barrowton, had calmed the  
assembled lords down. Sansa could not tell if some of them were more annoyed at the prospect of  
the marriage itself, or having Littlefinger as their King. Either way, they kissed her hand and filed  
out. Lord Edmure had a choice word or two to say when they were alone, but Sansa quieted him  
down, reminding him she was no longer a child but a Queen, and would make her own decisions.  
Slowly, perhaps with a whispered word of his wife in his ear, he accepted the decision. Though  
he was not on speaking terms with Lord Baelish in the least.

  
In fact, Lord Baelish had spent very little time with her since they departed from Riverrun. She  
knew he wanted to give her time with her family, and indeed Sansa adored her uncle. Roslin was  
a sweet and gentle woman, and her tainted Frey blood did not seem to show through. Either way,  
her child was a Tully, and bore the auburn hair and blue eyes of the house.

  
She glanced around the courtyard, and found him standing with Ser Jaime Lannister. She frowned  
slightly. After they left for the Golden Tooth together, they returned friends. Sansa was not sure if  
it was because he found a good sparring partner, or some other reason. He played the double  
agent for so long. Sansa still mistrusted Ser Jaime, despite his supposed change in character and  
actions that showed otherwise. He was a Lannister, and Sansa did not trust lions. She barely  
listened as Lord Edmure prattled on to Brienne about the curse of Harrenhal. Her eyes were on  
Lord Baelish. He leaned against his grey palfrey, a playful expression on his face as Ser Jaime  
leaned in to whisper something to him. Sansa frowned. Petyr was a Lannister man for as long as  
anyone could remember. That was the main reason many mistrusted him, never mind the  
moneylending and whores. Could he be playing the double agent once again, and be making a  
deal with Jaime Lannister? Sansa pushed the thought from her mind. Whatever deal he was  
making with Jaime would not make him king. That was something only Sansa could give to him,  
unless he planned to marry Mad Queen Cersei…

  
“Sansa?”

  
Her eyes flickered to Lord Edmure. “Sorry uncle, I’m tired from the long journey. Would you  
have the maids draw up a bath? And a meal sent to my chambers?”

  
Lord Edmure laughed softly. “Maids? Lady Whent’s servants have long gone, my lady. We might  
procure some from the village but for now, we shall have to serve ourselves.” That was a prospect  
Sansa was used to, having travelled on the road for so long. But, it had been a luxury staying a  
Riverrun, and having someone else attend to her needs.

  
“I will draw a bath for you, my Queen. I know the way.” Sansa followed Brienne of Tarth into  
the Kingspyre Tower as the sun began to set.

  


***

  
Sansa allowed the warm water to soothe her aching limbs. She settled against the edge of the deep  
pools. The bathhouse was done in a style from Essos, with two massive pools in one room. Of  
course, Sansa was the only one in the room, with Brienne guarding the door. She had offered to  
help Sansa bathe, but she assured the loyal woman she could more than manage herself. The  
steam filled the dim, low-ceilinged room, obscuring her vision. Sansa did not mind. She wanted to  
relax and push her burdens away for once. To have a moment of peace to herself.

  
The room was warm and steamy, and the hot water made Sansa’s mind hazy. She slipped her  
head beneath the soothing water, soaking her long hair. She picked up her lavender soap and  
began to work a lather through her hair, washing the sweat and dust away. She picked up another  
bottle and poured sweet almond oil into her hand, rubbing it through her ends. Then, she settled  
against the stone wall and closed her eyes.

  
Suddenly, the room began to spin. Red blood clouded her vision, and Sansa struggled in the  
water, trying to escape it. A figure approached her, and slipped off her robe, joining her in the  
large stone tub. Sansa backed away against the wall, but the woman paid her no heed. The pipes  
opened and red blood poured into the tub. Sansa tried to scream, but no sound came out her  
mouth. The woman ignored her and cackled an evil laugh. A mist passed over her vision, and  
Sansa was suddenly in the courtyard naked. She tried to cover her nakedness, and dashed behind  
a cart but no one paid her any heed. Men worked all around her. She glanced around. The day  
was bright and she could feel the hot sun burning her skin, but it was surely night in her time. The  
men wore shackles on their feet and an overseer bludgeoned a man to death. Sansa shuddered.

  
He laughed as he mixed the man’s blood in with the mortar and poured it into the mould for  
bricks. The mist passed over her vision a final time, and she rode a great leathery bat into the  
horizon.

  
The vision passed, and Sansa grasped the wall, breathing heavily. She gasped for air, but the air  
was heavy with steam. She turned the tap and the hot water stopped pouring in. Water. Only  
water, not blood. What did it mean? A woman had bathed in blood on this very tub. A man  
mixing human blood with mortar to lay the bricks for a castle foundations. And a great leathery  
bat. She remembered a tale Old Nan had told the Stark children. Harren the Black had mixed  
human blood in the mortar, Nan used to say, dropping her voice so the children would need to  
lean close to hear. She shuddered, and closed her eyes.

  
“I suppose they didn’t tell you mad Lady Lothson used to bath in her chambers in human blood.”

  
Instinctively, Sansa brought her knees to her chest, covering her breasts. It was not a female voice.

  
Or the voice of Petyr. The steam was clearing, and she saw a figure sitting on the stone bench  
across from her. She squinted through the steam, trying to make out who the man was.

  
“I suppose no one told you it is not proper for a strange man to watch a woman bathe,” she  
snapped. She knew that voice. “Why did Brienne let you in?”

  
Jaime Lannister was watching her. Sansa felt uncomfortable, though she was hardly in the  
position to stand up or Jaime Lannister would see her nakedness. Instead, she pulled her arms over  
her knees more tightly and frowned.

  
“I told her I would relieve her of guard duty, while she went to fetch you your evening meal.

  
Brienne trusts me, my lady. Have no fear. I did not come here to leer at you,” said the Kingslayer.

  
“And yet you do not avert your gaze, ser,” Sansa pointed out. For he was watching her intently.

  
Jaime chuckled. His green eyes flashing. “You seem to be appropriately covered, my lady.”

  
“Do not mock me, ser. I could very well scream and alert the guards outside the chambers to your  
presence,” she snapped.

  
“And yet you have not yet done so,” he said.

  
Sansa pursed her lips. She had not. She was still shaking from the vision. Gods. How long had he  
been there?

  
He seemed to have read her mind. “I heard you thrashing about in the water and came to make  
sure the little Queen was not drowning. Lord Baelish would have my head.” He smiled  
arrogantly. Sansa sighed in frustration. He had seen. Though perhaps the steam had obscured  
some of her nudity. “Fear not, my lady. You may be the most beautiful woman in the Seven  
Kingdoms, but I do not desire you.”

  
Sansa lifted her chin. “And what do you desire, Ser Jaime?”

  
He smirked. “Not what you would think, my lady. My father once told me I was blessed abilities  
few men possessed, blessed to belong to the most powerful family in Westeros, and blessed with  
youth. It seems time has robbed me of those blessings. But, I do not desire them back all the  
same.” He paused and seemed lost in thought.

  
Sansa took an opportunity she might not get at a later time. “What is your relationship with Lord  
Baelish?” Her tone was flat.

  
He raised an eyebrow. “Do you think I’m plotting to return my family to glory? I am not my  
father, Lady Sansa. I have no interests in the Iron Throne or my sister. You can have her for all I  
care. He’s an interesting fellow... Far more intelligent than any of the other oafs I’m surrounded  
with. We enjoy good conversation.”

  
Sansa watched him. Once, she had though Ser Jaime was the most beautiful knight in Westeros.  
Full of grace and chivalry. Now, the man she saw before her seemed less. Not just because he had  
fallen so far from grace. Something else had changed.

  
“You saw something didn’t you?”

  
Sansa broke out of her reverie, and raised an eyebrow. “What would you know about what I  
saw?”

  
He waved his golden hand. “This place…has many secrets. Some say it is cursed, and perhaps it  
is. But, there is something more. I fainted the last time I was here. I too took a bath. Though  
perhaps it was the pain from my hand. There’s strange…” He trailed off.

  
It was Sansa’s turn to raise a brow. “What is strange?”

  
Ser Jaime regarded her thoughtfully. “After I fainted, my mind became clear. I could no longer be  
the Kingslayer, so hated and scorned. I had to become Jaime again. And you…you were my key  
to everything…”

  
Sansa frowned. “Me?”

  
“When I returned to King’s Landing, Brienne and I were going to help you escape. But, Joffrey  
was dead, and you were gone…Do you know what the smallfolk say about you?”

  
Sansa straightened her back. “No. Tell me.”

  
A look passed over his green eyes. “They say you killed Joffrey with a spell, and afterward  
changed into a wolf with big leather wings like a bat, and flew out a tower window.”

  
Sansa gasped. The bat. In her vision, she was riding atop a great leathery bat. And she was a wolf.

  
A dire wolf. The wolf and the bat… “It makes sense now.”

  
Ser Jaime leaned forward. “What does?”

  
“My vision. I was riding a bat. And I am a wolf. There’s a connection somewhere…”

  
“Well, that’s simple enough. The Whents and Lothsons bore the bat sigil. Your grandmother was  
Minisa Whent, who married Hoster Tully. You are related to them on your mother’s side… What  
else did you see?”

  
She frowned. “A woman bathing in blood. And a man mix the blood of a human into the mortar.”

  
Jaime frowned. “This place is trying to tell you something. Lady Lothson used to bathe in human  
blood, and perhaps serve human flesh at her gatherings if the tales are true. And this place…”

  
“May have been built with blood magic,” she finished off for him.

  
“Horrible tales. Some people are obsessed with blood magic. They say you Northerners are too.  
The place is so full of mystery and allure--”

  
She cut him off. “It is. I partook in a blood sacrifice to the old gods.”

  
He crossed his arms and leaned back, an amused expression on his face. “Well, well. It appears  
you aren’t all courtesy and beauty, my lady. Though it would explain Roose…”

  
He had a habit of trailing off. Sansa frowned. “What of Bolton?”

  
“When Brienne and I were last here, he found a book. I could not make out what it was, but he  
read the parchment then threw it into the fire. There were old runes--”

  
“Lannister!”

  
Sansa turned abruptly in the water. Petyr Baelish stood at the doorway, his face etched with  
outrage.

  
Jaime stood up slowly. “Your future wife almost drowned. I came in to make sure you would still  
have a bride to wed.”

  
Petyr’s eyes flickered to Sansa’s. She smiled at him meekly. This was not a state any man would  
want to find his betrothed in. She had hoped Brienne would return and save her from her  
immodesty and chastise Ser Jaime, but that was not to be so. Instead, she was to be embarrassed in  
front of Petyr. He moved to pick up her robe discarded by his feet near the entrance to the room  
and walked over to her side of the pool. He opened the robe and held it out before him, intending  
for her to step into it. Sansa hesitated. If she stood, Ser Jaime would see her naked once again.

  
Petyr’s gaze was persistent.

  
She sighed and stood, the water cascading down her legs. She bit her lip as Petyr pulled the robe  
around her, and helped her out of the pool. No doubt Ser Jaime had seen a very pleasing view of  
her full ass. Her eyes locked with Petyr’s. They held no emotion.

  
“Leave, Ser Jaime. And next time do not take such liberties with the queen. Or you’ll be wishing  
you still had your sword hand,” Lord Baelish said, his tone flat. But his eyes did not leave hers,  
and she did not break away. She heard Jaime’s receding footsteps and the door shut close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I hope you guys like this and don't mind the longer chapter!  
> Jaime be creepin' LOL I love him guys, I cant help it. But Bae is like dont go staring  
> at my sweetling.  
> What do you think of the vision?  
> What do you think of the vision?  
> Harrenhal is about to get very very interesting...


	42. Sunlight in Her Hair

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> post-jaime awkwardness...

Sansa’s eyes were locked with Petyr’s. As the footsteps receded, they remained silent. She bit her  
lip. It was not right for Petyr to assume when he was the one who became close to Lannister.

  
Perhaps, he had given him the wrong impression. Suddenly, she became angry. Her gaze defiant.

  
“You should not have dismissed him.”

  
Petyr’s eyes were stone cold. “Oh?”

  
“I did not nearly drown. I had a vision. I suppose thrashing about would constitute as drowning to  
a trained ear. And he was trying to tell me something before you interrupted.” She held her head  
high.

  
Petyr remained silent. His expression softened, and his eyes trailed over her body. The robe was  
silk and thin. She had not been able to dry herself off, and so the material clung to her body,  
outlining every curve. Her nipples poked through the fabric. Petyr smirked, and tightly gripped her  
arm. “And what was he trying to tell you, sweetling?”

  
“About the curse. Lord Bolton burned a paper with old runes on it when Ser Jaime was a prisoner  
here…”

  
A look of interest passed over his eyes. “Runes?”

  
Sansa nodded. “My vision… A woman bathing in blood in this very tub. A man mixing human  
blood with mortar to lay the bricks for the castle’s foundations. And I was riding a great leathery  
bat.” She sounded a fool. Petyr did not believe in curses or myths or tales for children. Yet, his  
grey-green eyes glimmered and look of hunger passed over his face.

  
His grip on her arm loosened, and he began to rub small soothing circles with his thumb. “The bat  
is a symbol of rebirth because it is a creature that lives in womb-like caves, where it emerges every  
evening at dusk. From the womb it is reborn every night.”

  
Sansa frowned, unsure of the meaning behind his words. “Rebirth…”

  
Petyr chuckled as he opened Sansa’s silk robe, exposing her breasts to him. His hand moved to  
her nipple as he lightly traced it with his thumb. “When the dwarf promised me Harrenhal, I had to  
hide my delight. I’ve wanted it for a long time.”

  
Sansa gave him a puzzled look. “You said it was cursed. That every family to touch this castle has  
withered into extinction.”

  
His hand was ghosting down to her hips, and Sansa bit her lip again trying to control herself from  
thinking about the wetness that was pooling there. “Harrenhal was the seat of kings. Every family  
to hold it did not have the right blood, and so it destroyed them. Everyone but you,” he said.

  
Sansa gasped as his hand found her mound. She pushed the fingers away, but he gripped her  
harder. She let out a low moan, unable to contain herself. She wanted to talk, not make love. He  
smirked as his fingers came away glistening with wetness. “Do you know why everyone is so  
interested in you? Maybe the Lannisters only saw you as a key to carve out a larger part of the  
realm for themselves... But, Harrenhal has been calling out to you for a long time, sweetling.”

  
She shook her head. Her family held no claim to the castle. “I don’t understand.”

  
Petyr’s fingers traced over her lips softly, before sliding down to her neck. “A maiden born of  
Stark blood, the blood of Kings. A maiden born of Whent blood, the last great house to lay claim  
to the castle. Why do you think Ser Jaime is so interested in you and wants to protect you…  
Harrenhal wants its true mistress back.”

  
She gasped, as he slowly lay her down by the edge of the pool, her auburn hair pooling around  
her head like a halo. He leaned over her, his breath a whisper on her neck. Sansa felt her head  
beginning to spin, a whirl of colours and patterns, though she was not sure if it was the castle or  
Petyr. “Harren may have built the castle, but the Children of the Forest lay claim to this land. You  
are the one who can break the curse. The blood of a royal. Of the Kings of Winter. A maiden  
whose brother is a greenseer. A maiden who has sacrificed to the old gods many times.” He lifted  
a tendril of her red hair. “I loved a maid as red as autumn with sunlight in her hair. Do you know  
why the First Men treated and favoured red hair? The most rare shade in the land. You are a  
Queen of Love and Beauty.”

  
He began to trail kisses down her neck, sucking a throbbing pulse near her ear. Sansa felt her head  
begin to spin rapidly. She did not want another vision. Harrenhal was revealing its secrets to her.

  
Of course, she was a Stark. And a warg according to Bran, though she had never entered the mind  
of an animal or person. She doubted she could. Sansa was no stranger to the world of magic and  
allure. The world of old was built upon it. And it still existed. Had she not seen miracles? Her  
brother dead and then reborn as a hero of old? Her beautiful mother turned into a crone only to  
be resurrected as a vengeful creature? The old gods helping her in battle due to spilling the blood  
of her enemies. White Walkers. Dragons. Could a castle calling out to its rightful mistress be so  
bizarre? But, Petyr…he was not prone to believing in songs and tales. Not anymore.

  
The kisses were nearing her apex, and her back arched. But, Sansa found no pleasure in his  
caresses. Only questions. “Stop,” she sounded. Petyr glanced up at her puzzled. Sansa kept her  
gaze steady. He planted a small kiss on her nub, then leaned away from her, adjusting his doublet.

  
Sansa closed her robe and got up, walking to a stone bench and sitting. Petyr leaned against the  
wall, eyeing her.

  
“How long?” she asked.

  
“Since I first saw you.” Petyr’s voice sounded a hundred miles away.

  
She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the wall. The steam and mist had evaporated.

  
But, her head still felt hazy. “I was always just a pawn to you…”

  
Her eyes were closed, but she felt him shake his head. The words would hurt. They would  
produce the desired effect. She half-meant it. Part of her knew she was once a pawn. But, a pawn  
moved across the chess board could turn into a queen. Yet, Lord Baelish kept this secret hidden  
from her.

  
“In the beginning…yes…do you remember Ser Dontos?” Of course she did. Her Florian. Only  
another one of his men. A man he had killed with a cross bow.

  
“There was a reason you always met him in the godswood. You were always praying. I knew the  
old gods would be watching. A kidnapped queen. The First Men and those beyond the wall  
always kidnapped their chosen ones. Do you know the story of Bael the Bard?”

  
Sansa laughed. The irony of it all. How had she not seen it before? Bael the Bard. Just like  
Baelish. And Sansa was the kidnapped Stark daughter. She recalled the story Old Nan had told  
her on a warm summer evening. Bael was the King Beyond the Wall, who was offended when  
Lord Brandon Stark of the ages past named him a craven. Bael then travelled to Winterfell  
pretending to be a singer from Skagos. Since the singers were highly valued, Lord Stark asked  
what reward he should give to him for his songs that created much pleasure. Bael asked for the  
most beautiful flower in Winterfell, and Stark ordered one blue winter rose to be plunked from the  
gardens. The following morning, Bael and the Stark daughter were gone, and on her bed her  
father found a single blue winter rose. Since she was the only child of the then Lord Stark, the line  
was close to extinction without any heirs. Only a year later, they found the girl with an infant in  
her arms. And so the Stark name lived on. It was only a legend though. But, was it? If Baelish had  
kidnapped her in a wilding tradition, hadn’t Prince Rhaegar done the same to Lyanna…

  
She opened her eyes. Petyr’s voice sounded peaceful. “Harrenhal is the seat of Kings, sweetling.  
And Rhaegar may have crowned Lyanna the Queen of Love and Beauty all those years ago in  
this very place. You are no different. But, you are more than Lyanna. You have the mark. The  
hair.”

  
“You once told me a match between the Lord of Harrenhal and the Lady of the Vale was not so  
unlikely…it wasn’t just about Lysa, was it?”

  
“Not entirely. The game could have led us in either direction, but you took the power into your  
own hands. I was going to have you legitimized as my heir Lady Alayne Baelish, so you could  
marry Lord Harrold Hardyng. But, all I ever wanted was to give you Harrenhal one way or the  
other…” He trailed off and gazed at her. Sansa felt her heart slow. His eyes held so much love and  
longing.

  
Petyr spoke quietly, never taking his eyes off her. “You are not just a queen, you are the Queen of  
the First Men.”

  
A flare of irritation rose in her. “The Queen in the North. The Red Queen. The Wolf Queen.  
Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Queen of Love and Beauty. Queen of Promise. Queen of the First  
Men. You make me out to be Queen of the world…”

  
His expression was serious. It did not hold its usual mirth. “Sansa of the House Stark. Queen of  
the Andals and the First Men. That statement will never hold more true than it does now. You are  
not just another claimant to the Iron Throne. You are the true Queen of the First Men, and not just  
because you are a Stark.”

  
Sansa chuckled. Oh, he was clever. “And I suppose you wanted to appease the old gods by  
kidnapping me as per custom, and protecting me so they would accept you as their King.” Her  
tone was sarcastic.

  
Petyr ran a hand through his hair. More grey now at the temples than ever before. She wondered if  
she looked different too. Perhaps her figure was more shapely, her face more angular. Perhaps she  
had not changed at all. “The First Men are matrilineal. In a sense, I will always be your regent,  
and not a true monarch. Your daughters will carry the title through them, even though your sons  
will be Kings.”

  
“This was about more than just power. You wanted everything.” She stood, and approached him  
slowly, her expression pained. “I never knew what that meant until now. Everything meant a true  
queen. But, also to restore the realm. To appease the gods. To be accepted…”

  
“To create a dynasty that will last a thousand years. To change the way the world operates. The  
destroy many of the houses. I know what I am, Sansa. Do you know what you are?”

  
I do. I was a little bird. A lost creature who sang songs and lies. They tried to make me a  
Lannister, a wolf dressed as a lion. I was once a bastard, and I will always carry Alayne in me.

  
But, I am Sansa Stark now, and I will always be. “I am the blood of Winterfell.”

  
She was closer to him now, only half an arm’s length away. He smiled. A true genuine smile that  
reached his eyes. “I loved a maid as red as autumn…”

  
She reached him, and pulled him into a kiss and finished for him. “…with sunlight in her hair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh the mystery of Harrenhal. Let me know what you guys think, I appreciate your  
> input as always :)  
> A lot of this chapter was based off theories that are canon/books based, so I'm writing  
> this story based on what could potentially happen in asoiaf :D I'm attaching two links  
> for anyone who wants to further explore this idea of Sansa and Baelish and their true  
> intentions with Harrenhal.  
> http://asoiaf.westeros.org/index.php/topic/96512-house-stark-of-harrenhal-long-butwith-  
> tldr-summary/  
> The Littlefinger Debt Scheme (5 parts): https://www.youtube.com/watch?  
> v=jtDJd0XJCwU  
> BTW THE NEXT CHAPTER HAS A HUGE SURPRISE


	43. Ready

She awoke with a start in the middle of the night. Moonlight shone in through the large holes in  
the stone that had once been windows. The room was cold. Sansa pulled her furs tighter about  
herself. It was fruitless. A strong gust must have blown in, extinguishing the fire. She stood and  
quietly moved to the window. Below her the courtyard was silent and unmoving. It was eerie. The  
castle was massive yet so empty, as if there was not another soul except her inhabiting it. There  
was a certain sadness in the air. Sansa sighed. She felt wide awake. The cold spread goosebumps  
all over her skin. The moon shone brightly. The air was calling out to her.

  
She donned a simple grey gown, with ties at the front so she could easily manage without a maid  
or Brienne. She pulled her navy cloak on, and opened the door. Her guard had fallen asleep, a  
horn of wine fallen on the floor. She soundlessly moved around him and made her way down the  
stairs. The castle was large enough for all the soldiers to be housed away in the many rooms it  
offered. Many would be asleep in their chambers in the late hour of the night. The hour of the  
wolf.

  
She emerged into the courtyard, a hooded figure. No one would mistake her for a Queen, let alone  
a lady with her simple dress. The Kingspyre Tower was behind her. Sansa moved around the  
courtyard. She spied a large metal bin and tools for stone laying. She frowned. Harren had built  
the castle with blood. The castle itself was built with blood magic. She understood that part. It had  
connections with her sacrificial actions in the North. It had connections with the old gods. Lady  
Lothson bathing in blood. The Whents had been born out of the Lothsons, she could trace her  
matrilineal side to the Lothsons. A chirping sound from above caught her attention. Bats. The bat  
was the symbol of both House Lothson and Whent. And the smallfolk clearly linked Sansa Stark  
both with the bat and the wolf. A Whent and a Stark. She saw a large hoard of bats flying out of a  
blackened tower.

  
Sansa found a lit torch, and removed it from the scone on the wall. She made her way up the  
blackened stairs in the tower the bats were coming from. She tried to remember which tower it  
was, but the name did not cross her mind. As she climbed the stairs, the sound became louder. She  
went all the way to the top of the tower and found a door. Fingers grasped the rusted handle, and  
turned it, but the handle was stuck and the door would not open. After several minutes of rattling  
the rusted handle, she came to a resolution. With an unladylike kick, the door flew open.

  
Hundreds of bats filled the roof beams. She looked up, and the bats startled by the light began to  
fly out in the hundreds. The floor was covered in their droppings, and Sansa brought her sleeve to  
her nose to cover the stench. There were a few bats that remained and they were rather large. One  
was nearly the size of a large dog. She lifted her torch higher. On the wall was a frayed yellow  
banner. And nine black bats. Nine.

  
She grasped the wall as a vision filled her mind. A woman. No, she knew the woman. Hood  
drawn over her face, and the white hair poking out. Lady Stoneheart. She had a crown on the  
desk, and moved her bony hands over it its spikes. Sansa felt her pain and sadness. Lady  
Stoneheart moved her thumbs over the crown. It had nine spikes. Sansa shook slightly as the  
vision passed. The castle was revealing itself to her. Nine.

  
Nine bats of House Whent. Robb’s crown had nine spikes. Nine spikes of House Whent. And the  
bronze and iron of the First Men. House Stark. Was that crown always meant for her? Her mother  
had crowned her herself before dissipating into dust.

  
A sound caught her attention. A cough. Sansa frowned. Bats did not cough. She turned around,  
holding her torch alight. Had someone followed her? But, at the top of the tower no shadows  
were cast as she passed the light over the top of the stairs. Was someone in the room?

  
She passed the light over the right side of the room as she peered closely in the shadows. A figure  
sat in the far corner. She could barely make him out, but a man was hunched over, sitting against  
the wall. Sansa lowered her hood, and carefully stepped to avoid the large piles of bat droppings,  
she approached the man.

  
“Ser, are you all right?” The man did not respond. Sansa moved closer, before stopping a few feet  
away. His breeches and shirt were discoloured. Slightly tattered and worn with age. His hood  
covered his face, so Sansa could not tell if she knew him. He coughed again.

  
Sansa stepped closer. “Do you require assistance, Ser?”

  
The man chuckled softly. Sansa frowned and stepped back a few paces, uncertain who the person  
could be. Why had he locked himself inside a filthy tower? Had he gone craven? And if he had,  
then he was a danger to her, alone and unguarded? “I’ll go and get help.” She began to walk  
towards the door when the voice spoke. She recognized it instantly.

  
“Little bird.”

  
She whirled around in a flurry of skirts, and gasped. He had removed his hood. The right side of  
his face was gaunt, with sharp cheekbones and a black eye beneath a heavy brow. His nose was  
large and hooked, but it was the left side of his face that she remembered all too well. The hair  
was still long and black, and brushed sideways, covering the twisted mass of scar, slick black flesh  
hard as leather, pocked with craters and fissured by deep cracks that gleamed red. She looked into  
his eyes, once so full of anger and hate. He used to terrify her. But, the Hound did not frighten her  
anymore. Perhaps, he no longer had the same effect on her after the night at the Blackwater.

  
Perhaps, she had changed. He once told her the world was built by killers. That her father and  
brother were killers. Her husband would be. And her sons too. Sansa had seen men die, and dealt  
the pain of death to a few on her own. He once told her he killing was the greatest joy there was.

  
But, his expression was not as hard and cruel as before. There was a softness around his mouth.

  
His eyes. He too had changed.

  
Sansa kept her distance, feeling very uncertain. Was it truly him? Or was Harrenhal playing tricks  
on her again? “Sandor Clegane.”

  
His mouth twisted in the familiar mockery of a smile, his voice rasping like metal on stone. “At  
least you learned I am no knight.”

  
She remained silent. There was a lot left unsaid between them. His gaze on her was steady, and  
Sansa matched his stare. There was a time when she had prayed for him. For the gods to make  
him less angry and for the Mother to quell the rage inside him. She remembered the hatred he had  
for his brother, the Mountain Gregor Clegane. For Cersei and Joffrey. For Tyrion. For Meryn  
Trant and all the other White Cloaks. And then, she had found him sleeping in her bed, drunk and  
bloodied. She had sung him the song he wanted, with a blade pressed to her throat. Gentle  
Mother, Font of Mercy. Save our sons from war, we pray. Soothe the wrath and tame the fury,  
teach us all a kinder way. The last words he spoke to her were also the first he spoke after all  
those years. Little bird.

  
“I learned many things over the years,” she said quietly. She was unsure why her voice shook.

  
He continued to stare at her, his mouth twisted in a smile. “Aye. They call you the Red Wolf now.  
Had to come and see for myself, didn’t I? When word came to the Quiet Isle that a Stark with a  
giant army was coming down from the North, had to see for myself. Couldn’t be the little shewolf?  
No, I knew who it was. You flew away, and shit on them all!”

  
Sansa was not sure why the words caught in her throat. It was an unsettling feeling. She had not  
felt this way in years. She was a Stark. A Queen. The master of lies and manipulation was her  
mentor. She had learned political maneuvering and won the hearts of the smallfolk. Yet, she felt  
like the foolish little bird from ages past once again. She cleared her throat. “I often thought of you  
after you left…”

  
He laughed. “Did you? Maybe you’ve grown. Your face is more angular. Your nose is sharper.”

  
His eyes trailed over her slowly. “You’ve grown into yourself. How old are you now?” He  
scoffed. “Ah, what does it matter…you’re still a little bird. The gilded cage is just different.”

  
Sansa frowned. No, I am not. Not anymore. She shook her head slowly. “No Clegane, there is no  
more cage. And I am no longer a bird, repeating all the fancy words they taught me. I’ve raised  
armies. I’ve destroyed the Boltons and the Freys. And Cersei Lannister is next…why did you  
come?”

  
His smile faded and his silent gaze passed over her. She moved closer to him holding her skirts  
above the floor to not let the bat droppings touch. He flinched. Sansa realized the flaming torch  
was too near his face. He was always afraid of fire. And I was the only one who knew his story.

  
The real story of his scars. She looked at the wall for a scone but could find none. She sighed and  
wedged it in a pile of droppings. She stood over the Hound, and he gazed up at her.

  
His expression softened. “You were a gentle one. You could not have done it on your own. Who  
helped you escape?”

  
“Petyr Baelish,” she said softly.

  
“Littlefucker!” he snarled, his mouth twisting in contempt.

  
Sansa shook her head. “You were no true knight, yet you saved me all the same. It was you  
before the others, who showed me the truth of the world. You disillusioned me. And protected  
me…I will always have a place in my heart for you, Sandor Clegane. But, Petyr Baelish is my  
future.”

  
“He’s fucked you then, has he? Bugger him!” The rage started to swell in his eyes.

  
Sansa reached out, and slowly slid her hand over his cheek. The rage quieted. She smiled slightly.

  
She still had the same effect over him. “Shhh…all is well. No one will harm me. I am safe with  
him.” A look of hurt may have passed over his eyes, she could not be sure. He had promised to  
protect her and take her somewhere safe. North. Yet, she declined all the same. In the Hound’s  
eyes, she had shunned him and chosen another. It was not Littlefinger, but the Hound who  
protected her in King’s Landing. Yet, the gears had shifted. Petyr was not a knight, and could not  
wield a sword. But, his protection was far stronger than Sandor Clegane’s. Petyr will give her the  
Iron Throne, and Sandor had wanted to give her Winterfell. It was better this way.

  
She stood slowly, and clasped her hands before her. His black eyes followed her. She was a wolf,  
and he was a dog. Dogs were loyal. She knew that. She cocked her head slightly. “Would you  
serve in my Queensguard?”

  
“I left that shit. Fuck the King!” His face was shining red in the torch light.

  
She shook her head sadly. He was still scarred, though perhaps the rage within him had been  
gentled. “I’m not Joffrey.”

  
“This isn’t a song. You can’t just walk in and restore peace to the Realm. There isn’t a magic  
wand you can wave to repair the whole damn place!”

  
She smiled. “I know. It will take years. Decades even. And the fighting won’t end immediately.  
But, we will build a legacy.”

  
The Hound laughed, which caused him to begin a coughing fit. “A legacy? Most of them fade  
into dust. A Hound will die for you, but he will never lie to you and he will look you straight in  
the face.”

  
“You told me the same thing, all those years ago,” she said. “You were honest, it’s the world that  
is awful. But, I’ve seen a part of the world. And people have to hope. Without hope, we cannot  
hope to go on…”

  
“Steel and arms rule the world, little bird,” he said, closing his eyes as if the conversation drained  
him.

  
“So, they do,” Sansa whispered. “And I have steel and arms and men. But, wits allow a ruler to  
control in the shadows.” And beauty. She smiled inside as Lord Baelish’s words crept into her  
mind. Petyr had made slow love to her in the baths only hours before. His kisses still ghosted her  
arms, her neck, her belly.

  
The Hound was staring at her. He nodded, and stood up roughly, towering over her. Once, a little  
bird would have backed away, keeping the distance between them, But, a wolf closed the distance  
and smiled up at him warmly. He nodded at her once again. “Aye, I’ll serve you.”

  


**

  
She stood at the edge of the shore. Her back was to him. Her soft auburn hair blowing in the light  
breeze. Across the lake, acres of weirwood trees lay waiting for her. He knew this was her  
journey. They had been at Harrenhal for a week, and the time was coming to a close.

  
He maintained his distance, stopping a few feet away from her. She did not turn to face him,  
continuing to stare out over the lake. The breeze seemed to carry whispers from across the shore.

  
He smiled slightly. This was her journey. She would find herself at Harrenhal. Her true self. The  
Queen she was born to be.

  
They shared a quiet moment, neither of them speaking. The silence was not foreboding, but  
peaceful. He had learned long ago to hold a deep reverence for the old gods. Perhaps, it happened  
the first time he saw a heart tree. The one he showed her in the Vale. For them to accept them, she  
had to accept him. He had used her from the beginning. But, over the months the mutual trust had  
blossomed into love.

  
She turned to face him slowly, a small tear trailing down her cheek. He smiled. His secret smile  
reserved only for her. “I’m ready,” she whispered. A sound as soft as the breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did anyone expect a bit of SanSan? :D  
> I wouldn't call myself a Sansan shipper but I like their relationship and to make them  
> reunite! This chapter was inspired by this fabulous video that everyone should check  
> out: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lpNS_siAK9U  
> A WEDDING IS COMING!  
> Btw guys, before we leave harrenhal, let me know what you want to see! I think I  
> want to add in another chapter either pre or post wedding, so whether its a question  
> answered or some jaime or edmure or petyr or whoever, let me knowww


	44. Isle of Faces

They travelled across the God’s Eye in small crafted boats. Hundreds of men stepped foot onto the  
Isles of Faces, a thousand ancient eyes watching. The warriors and lords descended from the First  
Men felt an air of peace and serenity, for their ancestors may have warred with the Children of the  
Forest for centuries, but it was here, at the God’s Eye that they signed their pact of peace. The  
warriors and lords descended from the Andals felt wary and uneasy, for their ancestors had  
slaughtered the Children of the Forest and burned and hacked away at the heart trees. They felt as  
if they were invading secret ground.

  
Mors Umber look most serene of them all. A man descended from the First Men and from an  
ancient house who devoutly worshipped the nameless faceless gods of the forests, streams and  
stones. Edmure Tully and his wife Roslin appeared wary. Lord Edmure disliked their stay at  
Harrenhal, despite how short it was planned to be. He did not like his newborn son spending the  
first months of his life near the haunted and cursed castle, afraid that the curse may fall upon his  
house. The olds gods and their mystery unsettled him. He understood the feeling his sister had  
once described—of how foreboding the place was. He realized it belonged to those who were  
devout to the old gods, the blood of the First Men. His niece. Sansa may look like her mother, but  
she was every bit as hard and cold as the North itself. He looked to find her, but remembered she  
was not here yet. The bride was the last to depart for the island, rowed to her destination by his  
uncle, the Blackfish. Instead, Lord Tully’s eyes travelled to Jaime Lannister. The Lion showed no  
signs of fear or uncertainty as the many other southorn lords did, nor did the Maid of Tarth. Ser  
Jaime held an easy smile, and the Tarth woman appeared distracted, though perhaps it was  
because she wanted to escort the Queen herself, but was not given the honour. Sandor Clegane  
was there as well, his marked face twisted in a scowl as he stood aside from the large group.

  
Edmure Tully ushered his wife ahead. They reached a clearing where Mors Umber and the  
Greatjon arranged the high lords. They stood waiting.

  


***

  
Petyr Baelish, the Lord of Harrenhal arrived. Petyr wore a richly embroidered green doublet. The  
green was laced with small silver mockingbirds as he calmly strode into the clearing surrounded  
by carved faces dripping red. Petyr did not appear nervous, his face was always contrite. He  
smiled at a few of the lords in passing, and Ser Jaime gave him a small wink. He took his place  
behind Mors Umber at the front of the great weirwood.

  
He felt the thousands of eyes watching him. Petyr was nervous though. He had stood beside their  
Queen, the Queen of the First Men for months, guiding and leading her to victory. But, was it  
enough? He had caused her much pain. He had started the war between Starks and Lannisters that  
led to the death of many of her family members. He had knowingly and willingly created a coup  
for her father, and betrayed him, standing close to her as she fainted when her father’s head was  
severed from his body. He had used her, lied to her and taken her virginity. Was he worthy? Her  
brother, the greenseer was no doubt watching him as well. Bran Stark. Though he had no part to  
play in the young boy’s fall, Petyr felt responsible for his demise as well. Yet, all those separate  
paths. All those separate journeys had led them all to this point. Her. Her brother. Jon Snow. The  
Faceless Arya Stark. Jaime Lannister. Brienne. The Hound. And him. This was meant to be. It  
was fate. Whatever happened from this point on was in the hands of the gods. And chaos. Always  
chaos.

  


***

  
The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky awash with hues of oranges, reds and yellows. The  
bright red leaves of the weirwoods were coming closer, as her uncle Brynden rowed the small  
boat, a lantern at the helm. The bride wore an ivory gown of silver samite, bedecked with pearls  
and small diamonds. She had laboured over it for days in order to prepare. The ancient symbol of  
her house shone brightly on a sash pinned across her waist. Her long auburn hair was plaited and  
strung with small pearls. She bit her lip nervously.

  
Marriage. The word that once filled her with joy and happiness had turned into something else  
entirely for her. Many had wanted her for her claim. She thought no one would marry her for love.

  
Not Joffrey. Not the Imp. Not Harrold Harydyng, Loras Tyrell or Petyr Baelish. And yet she was  
in love. Her cheeks were rosy with the glow of it. Her uncle gave her a reassuring smile. She  
smiled weakly, as she gripped the helm of the boat, standing tall and balancing her weight.  
She was in the South, but it was the North that called out to her. Harrenhal’s secret was the land. It  
was sacred. A land held in great esteem by the old gods and the Children. She knew she was the  
only one who could break the curse. They reached the shore, and Lord Brynden helped his niece  
from the boat, carrying her in his arms so her skirts would not become wet from the lake. He set  
her on the shore, and Sansa breathed in deeply. The smell. It reminded her of the godswood in  
Winterfell. It was akin to pine, but something more. All of her anxiety melted away. She felt  
surreal. You are a goddess, Petyr had told her.

  
The Blackfish removed the lantern from the helm of the boat, for the sky had faded to blues and  
purples. He began his walk, lighting their path with the lantern. Sansa followed at a close distance.

  
Ahead, dozens of other lanterns had been lit to light their pathway. It was much like the sacrifices  
she had performed. But, it was so much more. Hundreds of carved faces stared back at her, the  
glint from the fire light causing the red weirwood sap to appear like glowing eyes. But, Sansa felt  
no fear, only tranquility. She was the blood of Winterfell. The wolf blood. A child of the North.

  
She was a Stark, and Starks were always brave and strong.

  
The eyes watched her as she passed, and soon whispers joined in the soft evening breeze. Sansa  
smiled as the red leaves rattled, reminded of the first prayer she had prayed to the olds gods when  
Petyr and her came upon the heart tree in the Vale. Let him be good for me. She had never really  
known what she meant by those words. But, perhaps the old gods had led her to this moment.

  
They had watched her, just as they had watched him.

  
She glanced ahead, and a swath of forms flickered in the light. Sansa wore a light smile as she  
stepped into the clearing. She could see them all. Those who had sworn loyalty to her. To live and  
die for her by the sword. Her uncle stopped and handed his lantern to Edmure Tully. She had  
almost reached him, but they still stood at a distance separated by the yet to be spoken words.

  
Petyr looked handsome in his green and silver doublet. He smiled at Sansa reverently.

  
“Who comes before the old gods tonight?” Lord Mors Umber called into the night.

  
The Blackfish stepped forward, and Sansa stood a few paces behind him. “Queen Sansa of the  
House Stark. Of the Blood of the First Men. She has come to beg the blessings of the old gods  
and be wed,” he said, his voice echoing. “Who comes to claim her?”

  
With a small smile, Lord Baelish came forward. His smile widened as he took in the sight of her,  
dressed in ivory samite and pearls. A vision. A genuine smile. “Lord Petyr of the House Baelish,  
Lord of Harrenhal.” He turned to the Blackfish. “Who gives her?”

  
“Ser Brynden the Blackfish of House Tully. The uncle of her late mother in place of her Stark  
kin.” The Blackfish did not seem to be speaking to Petyr, but to the trees themselves. For that was  
what these vows were. The announcement to the old gods that the marriage was taking place in  
their sight.

  
Lord Mors rough voice sounded. “My Queen Sansa, do you take this man as your husband?”

  
The wind picked up slowly, setting the leaves rustling. A swell of happiness filled Sansa’s chest.  
She glanced around her, many were smiling. At her wedding, all she wanted was for people to be  
happy and smiling. And so they were. Lord Brynden. Lord Mors. Lord Edmure and pretty Roslin.

  
Lord Harry in his loyalty to his queen. Lady Brienne and Ser Jaime, his green eyes amused. Even  
Sandor Clegane seemed in awe of her. And beyond Petyr Baelish, the amicable man, the face of  
the heart tree stared back at her. Only it wasn’t just a face. It was Bran. Little brother, she  
whispered to the wind. They were all there. And yet they weren’t. Her lord father. Her lady mother  
as her true self, blue eyes and shining auburn hair. Arya with her smile after running in the snow.

  
Robb beaming at her with pride. Little Rickon with his wild red hair. And Jon Snow. Ever  
observant Jon Snow. Some were dead, and some were miles away. But in that moment, it felt  
right. She was not alone now. They would always be with her. She would carry them wherever  
she went.

  
“Queen Sansa?” asked Lord Mors.

  
Sansa raised her eyes to Petyr’s, who had a concerned expression on his face. She smiled and  
strode forward past her uncle, taking his face in her hand and kissing his lips fully. His arms  
wrapped around her waist and she leaned into him. This was right. “I take this man.”

  
There was clapping all around, and Sansa broke away laughing. This was a wedding. What a  
wedding was supposed to be. Of the person’s free will. Where the guests and couple were happy,  
and joy and mirth was all around. Petyr extended his arm to her and the couple knelt before the  
massive heart tree on the cold ground.

  
Petyr removed his dagger from his belt, and handed the sharp blade to Sansa. His grey-green eyes  
shone brightly in the fire light. Sansa smiled as she pricked her thumb with the point of the blade,  
then did the same to his thumb. They joined thumbs, as their blood intermingled and slowly  
dripped to the roots of the great weirwood, coating its surface. Then Petyr took a handkerchief  
from his doublet and wrapped her thumb, kissing it softly. A blood promise. They were joined.  
“You’re beautiful, sweetling,” he whispered. She smiled and he placed a soft kiss on her lips. He  
helped her stand, and the newlyweds walked together to the edge of the shore. The large party of  
high lords followed. The lights from Harrenhal loomed in the near distance. Lord Edmure handed  
Petyr a lantern and he hung it on the helm of Sansa’s boat. Petyr carefully lifted her, his strong  
arms gripped her and keeping her safe as he steadied her on the boat. He climbed in after her and  
found the oars, rowing them into the lake.

  
The red leaves rustles and whispered to her as the couple departed as husband and wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys enjoyed this serene and heartfelt scene (: They're married!  
> Just keeping everyone updated, there will be a short post-wedding scene, then we  
> will have 3 non-Sansa POV chapters (guess who?) and a final chapter that ties it all  
> together. I'm super excited and I hope you guys are too!


	45. Your Grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut ahead

Laughter roared and music echoed through the courtyard of the ancient castle. Wine flowed freely  
and the smell of roast lamb and pig wafted through the air. The smallfolk had been invited to  
partake in the festivities, though a few were still wary of the curse, despite the promise of food and  
mirth. A few of the lords had raised their eyebrows after the wedding ceremony. Many had not  
seen a marriage done in the way of the old gods, as the North was a mystery to them. However,  
the Lords of the North had not missed the way the Queen and their new King had drawn blood  
and intermingled it before the limbs of the heart tree. Blood was a part of their sacrifices and  
customs, but a marriage? It was strange indeed.

  
However, they were ignorant of the actual forces at work at Harrenhal. Long before the castle had  
been built by Harren the Black, it was the sacred ground of the Children of the Forest and the old  
gods of stone, forest and stream. The First Men had spilled their blood, but in the end, the pact  
signed at the Isle of Faces had removed the animosity between them, as the wildings who held  
true to their customs were well aware of. It was the Andals who sought to destroy them, and  
driven them far into the North, beyond the Wall. There, the Children were biding their time,  
waiting for the right moment. Thousands of years had passed, and they remained in hiding,  
waiting. The reality was the land around the Isle of Faces been cursed since their massacre, a little  
known fact until Harren built his monstrous fortress. A little known fact until the families began to  
die, and servants were found burned to death in their rooms, with no known cause.

  
And cursed it was to remain, until the right events in time aligned. The coming of the last  
greenseer who would lead the Children back into the world. And the coming of a beautiful  
maiden with the blood of the Andals and the First Men, who would unite and join the Realm. The  
old gods had been waiting. The Children had been waiting. But, the right moment had arrived.

  
Bran Stark was the last greenseer who would govern the unseen world of the weirwoods and  
allow the North to rise in power. And Sansa Stark was the Queen of Promise, who would bring  
the ways of the North back to the Realm.

  
But, had the old gods accepted Petyr Baelish? Fate and destiny were interesting indeed. The times  
were changing. It was time for a turning of history. It was time for the world to be brought out of  
war and suffering. It was the dawn of a new age. And Petyr Baelish was the right man. A lowborn  
noble with little chance to rise in the world, he had made a name for himself, a name that  
would last for centuries. They needed a man to stand beside their Queen of Promise, who would  
guide her and help her make the right choices that would change the Realm. A man with cunning  
and a mind for diplomacy, who would usher in the new age. For a new age was coming to  
Westeros and the Known World. They simply did not see it. The days of the lord and the serf  
were of the last. The days of ignorance and superstition were dying. Soon an era of  
intellectualism, culture, education, equal rights and opportunity would emerge. Great centers of  
learning would arise, educating hundreds of sharp-minded men and women in the ways of  
alchemy, medicine, history and social policy. Monetary funds and patents would be available for  
men to research and invent. A world where birth would not limit people from reaching their full  
potential. Where talent would be rewarded, regardless of social rank. It was not something even  
Sansa Stark was aware of when Lord Baelish told her the old world was dying, but he had a plan  
for the Realm that would take the Known World out of the dark ages and into an enlightened  
world.

  
It would be slow, for people’s minds are naught to accepting new and original ideas. Humans  
prefer the mundane, for life to go on uninterrupted as it always has. Very few would be  
adventurous and up for the challenge. But, the older minds less accepting of change and new ideas  
would soon die of old age or at war. And very subtly, he would introduce new changes, until forty  
years from now, they would look back and wonder how it all changed. Perhaps, there were very  
few open-minded and adventurous men at all, and had Petyr Baelish died that fateful day at  
Riverrun, the world would not have changed at all. But, the events in history were perfectly  
aligned. The Stark Queen had fuelled power and energy to the old gods with her blood sacrifices  
of her enemies. Petyr Baelish had ripped the realm into chaos with his playing of the game of  
thrones. But together, with his ingenuity representing the New World, and her ancient name and  
lineage representing the Old World, the Realm would prosper and move forward into a Golden  
Age.

  
But for now, high in the rooms of the Kingspyre Tower, the future King and Queen of the Seven  
Kingdoms had other matters on their mind. Soft candlelight lit her features, as Lord Baelish  
carefully untied the laces from the back of her beautifully embroidered ivory samite gown. He  
could not see her facial expression, but he knew she felt serene and at peace. The whole day had  
felt like a dream for him, and he was in no rush for it to end, wanting to draw out every wondrous  
moment. His thumb throbbed slightly from the cut, but it scarcely mattered. Already the air felt  
lighter. The laces of the gown gave way, and exposed the delicate porcelain skin of her back. He  
slowly ran a finger down her spine, sending goosebumps all over her skin. Petyr smiled inwardly  
as he lightly pushed the gown off her shoulders. Sansa stepped out from it, her eyes lowered,  
wearing only her smallclothes and stockings, the rest of her bared and beautiful before him. He  
inhaled sharply. No matter how many times he saw her naked, no matter how many times they  
made love, it was always like he was seeing her for the first time. She was perfect.

  
Her blue eyes slowly met his. Petyr stepped forward and cupped her ass, drawing her in for a fullmouth  
kiss. It started out slow, a gentle dance of tongues that turned more feverish and urgent as  
Sansa pulled his doublet off. He was gasping for air by the time she got to his breeches, his lips  
still on hers. She broke away, and lowered herself to her knees. Petyr inhaled sharply.

  
The sight before him was glorious. A mass of auburn hair, still plaited and intertwined with pearls  
beneath him, her blue eyes gazing up at him with passion. He gripped the bed post, as she took  
him into her mouth, her tongue rolling over him expertly. His eyes closed as the other hand  
gripped her hair, guiding her head against him. She was slow, drawing out the sensations, and he  
felt engulfed in heat, tipping his head back in pleasure and letting out a low moan. She lavished  
him, licking and sucking, and letting him hit the back of her throat, until he was unsure what she  
would do next, but his hands dug deeper into her scalp and he let out a hiss. Petyr wondered how  
much longer he could last, as he is dripping pre-cum and Sansa is sucking every drop away. But,  
Sansa seemed to have made up her mind, as her nails dug into his hips and he thrusted deep into  
her throat. She swallowed and choked a bit, and Petyr opened his eyes. It was a beautiful sight. To  
have Sansa’s sweet mouth wrapped around the full length of him, her blue eyes staring up at him,  
her breasts glistening with a light sheen of sweat. He looked down and saw she was still wearing  
her stockings and smallclothes, and wonders how wet she is for him. He loses reason and starts to  
thrust into her throat, the soft velvety muscles gripping his cock. Sansa’s hand lightly caressed his  
balls, and suddenly it’s too much, the sight of her at the end of him, and he let go and comes deep  
into her throat.

  
Petyr removes himself from her, and Sansa is gasping for air, a coy smile on her lips. Petyr is  
rather impressed that she swallowed his load completely. He had given her oral pleasure many  
times, but she rarely returned the favour. Suddenly, she stands back up, and he tastes himself on  
her lips. Sansa laughs lightly. Petyr looks at her, her blue eyes shining, her cheeks rosy and he is  
hard again. He tosses Sansa lightly on the bed, her breasts bouncing lightly. Sansa lifts her leg up,  
and he carefully removes the stocking, trailing kisses down her thighs. He is well-aware of the  
smell of sex coming from her, and he touches her through her smallclothes. He smirks. He is  
soaking wet for him. Suddenly, he had an idea. “How badly do you want me, sweetling?”

  
Sansa raised an eyebrow. “Are you going to make me beg?”

  
A wicked smile passed over his lips, and he removed the other stocking, tying her hands together  
with the soft fabric. He lightly traced her nub through her smallclothes, the wetness increasingly  
pooling there. He slowly stroked her, drawing out the sensation. Sansa started to squirm. He  
smirked as he removed the ties from her smallclothes and sees her wetness for himself. Petyr  
flipped Sansa over on her stomach so her ass was facing him. He drew her on her knees, so she is  
in the doggy-style position. Still, he did not touch her. Sansa turned her head back and stared at  
him, biting her lip. She wiggled for him, Petyr gripped both ass cheeks, stretching and closing  
them, but still not touching her where she wanted him to.

  
“Petyr…” she began.

  
“Yes, my Queen?”

  
Sansa squirmed, and his fingers found her mound, cupping her there. Sansa moaned at the wanted  
contact, and he slowly pumped two fingers inside her shallowly. Sansa groaned and tried to move  
back, but he continued to tease her, only thrusting shallowly. “What is it you want, sweetling?”

  
“You,” she moaned, as his fingers thrust into her more deeply and rapidly. “Oh gods…”

  
He spread her knees further apart, keeping her legs wide open for him as he got on the bed and  
positioned himself behind her. He took himself in hand and guided himself to her entrance. She  
was dripping wet, a string of moisture dripping down to the silk sheets. His cock teased her  
entrance, rubbing himself against her folds, then removing himself. Her entrance was ready for  
him, pulsating and aching with need. “Petyr…”

  
“Who do you want, sweetling?”

  
“Oh gods, Petyr. You. Only you.” She wiggled and squirmed for him, her breathing heavy.  
“And what is it you want, sweetling?” His cock lightly entered her, and her walls clenched him  
before he removed himself from her. She groaned at the loss of contact. “Please, Petyr.... Fuck  
me.”

  
“Gladly, my Queen.” He dove into her with full force, causing them both to moan loudly. He  
thrust into her fast and hard, each thrust with such a force she could feel it all over her body,  
sending a fire to her core. Her breasts bounced, and his hand found one, twisting and squeezing  
her roughly. His eyes were filled with mad lust and determination. Soft whimpers escaped her lips  
as he pound into her. Her walls were clenching him wildly, and he could tell she was close.

  
“Come with me, Sansa.” His fingers found her little nub, and she let out his name in a scream and  
fell over the edge, her whole body shaking madly with an orgasm. Petyr worked into her harder  
until he came into her, collapsing in exhaustion on top of his lady wife. The Queen.

  
Their breathing slowed, and he rolled to his side taking her in his arms. Sansa sighed against him,  
content and satisfied. Petyr kissed her forehead, and rubbed soothing circles on her back.  
“You do realize I’m still tied?” she said with a grin.

  
Petyr smirked. “Completely intentional on my part, my lady.”

  
“What will you do to me, Your Grace?” she said coyly. Your Grace. He was King now. And  
what do you want? Everything. His cock began to stir at just the sound of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KING OF THE ASHES!  
> So, what I’m trying to say is that the old gods accepted Sansa and Petyr and so the  
> curse of Harrenhal is broken but no one knows it yet. No one will die there now.  
> Unless of course a Stark does not claim it, but someone will receive Harrenhal later ;)  
> As you guys know, I love my theories and debates about asoiaf so this whole  
> Littlefinger bringing in the enlightenment and a dawn of a new era to Westeros was  
> inspired by GotAcademy and this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?  
> v=XvcPZbDSwvI  
> Check them out!  
> Anyways, WHO’s READY FOR KINGS LANDING! And the final events!


	46. Taller

She could see King’s Landing from where she stood in the surrounding hills of the countryside.  
The Red Keep, the battlements, the smell of pig shit and unwashed bodies from miles away. Sansa  
Stark had come back to face her past. Beyond the walls, Cersei Lannister was hidden in the Red  
Keep, no doubt nursing a cup of wine and mentally torturing some poor serving maid. Sansa  
remembered the night of the Battle of Blackwater Bay, where Queen Cersei had done the very  
same thing to her. A hundred moons ago. King’s Landing looked so small and pathetic from  
where she stood. She remembered the day she had first set foot in the Capitol, a young girl fresh  
from the North… and yet here she stood. Sansa had seen a large part of Westeros in all those years  
and King’s Landing looked almost pathetic in comparison.

  
Cersei Lannister was surrounded. Two massive armies were gathered in the open fields outside of  
the gates. Behind her, the many houses and nobles who had sworn her allegiance stood at ready.

  
Nearly fifty thousand since the army from High Garden led by Olenna Tyrell and Randall Tarly  
joined her. The North. The Vale. The Riverlands. A part of the Westerlands. The Reach. Sansa  
had five of the nine kingdoms behind her. She did not doubt the Crownlands would yield to her,  
and soon the Stormlands. All that was left was Dorne and the Iron Islands. She had gained so  
much. By her side, stood her cunning husband and Lord Redfort, her two pillars of strength. But  
in front, an unknown army of perhaps five thousand who carried spears and wore no chainmail or  
armour, only boiled leather stood.

  
She sat taller in her saddle, her lavender silk gown billowing in the light breeze. How appropriate  
considering it was the colour she wore the last time she had been in the city, on the night she  
escaped from King’s Landing and into the scheming arms of Petyr Baelish. She glanced at him  
now. How far we have come since then. Petyr had more grey in his hair now and had lost more  
weight. But, his mind was sharper than ever, more than any man in her army. On her braided  
crown of shining auburn hair, sat the bronze and iron crown with nine spikes.

  
Queen Sansa Stark called out to the man foremost at the head of the formation of their opposing  
force, who stood fifty paces across from her. “I have no wish to fight you, ser. I will not fight a  
leader whose face I have no seen. Remove your helmet and let me look upon you.”

  
The man removed his helmet. He had a plain face and wide nose, darkened by the sun. His voice  
was low and accented. “This one is not a ruler. This one has the honour of being called Grey  
Worm, freed by the Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaryen.”

  
The Dragon Queen. How long had it been since she first thought about her? She had been in the  
Eyrie, waiting for Petyr to return from his trip to Gulltown. She had been Alayne Stone then. So,  
the Dragon Queen had finally come to Westeros? How unfortunate it had to be in the same day as  
Sansa. She sighed. This could not be avoided. Her army may be smaller, but the Queen possessed  
three massive dragons. They had seen the winged shadow as they made their way into the  
surrounding hills. This would not bode well. Unless, she could come to an agreement with  
Daenerys. Unless she could see the fabled woman for who she truly was and they could cast aside  
their differences. She saw no reason for the Dragon Queen to hate her. But, she would not bend  
the knee. “Take me to your Queen, Grey Worm. I wish to parley a truce with her, if she will see  
me.”

  
“Daenarys Stormborn is dead, oh Purple Lady. This one’s ruler is another Targaryen,” he said.  
Another Targaryen? That was unlikely. The only other Targaryen was Jon Snow, and he had no  
idea of the fact. He was a proud Stark now. Perhaps it was a mummer’s farce. “Take me to him.”

  
“No harm will come to you, Purple Lady. This one must present you to the King. What shall he  
call you?”

  
Petyr spoke up. “Tell your King he is meeting Queen Sansa of the House Stark, Queen of the  
Winter and the First Men, and the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.”

  
If he took any offence, the man did not show it. He snapped his fingers and a path was cleared  
before them, leading through the men who stood in perfect formation. Sansa spoke quickly to  
Harry. “If I do not return, seat my brother Jon on the throne.” Harry looked at her with anger in  
his eyes, but nodded solemnly. Sandor Clegane and Brienne of Tarth stepped forward, wanting to  
accompany her, but Sansa waved them away. She dismounted, as did Petyr and Lord Redfort.

  
They made their way through the soldiers. A sea of grey.

  
They came to plain looking-black tent. The man called Grey Worm raised his hand for her to stop.

  
Sansa heard Petyr scoff. She knew what he was thinking. They had seen the shadow of a dragon  
flying overhead, but they could be wasting time. Her army could easily crush the sea of grey,  
rendering the Targaryen of his army. What use was a ruler with no army?

  
“He will see only you.” Grey Worm nodded at Sansa.

  
“Nonsense. I will not go anywhere without my husband,” she protested, her arm tightening  
around Petyr’s.

  
“He is only interested in seeing you.” The man’s voice was firm.

  
“And my Queen just said she will not go in without the King,” said Lord Redfort, his hand on the  
helm of his great valyrian sword.

  
Impatiently, she moved towards moved towards the tent still holding Petyr’s arm in a show of  
unity, but the guards blocked her. “Will you slay a guest then?” she snapped.

  
“Sansa…”

  
She knew that voice. Oh, it would be good to see him again.

  


***

  
Tyrion Lannister stared wide-eyed at the woman would he had once called his lady-wife. His  
child bride. The years had only made her more beautiful. Sansa had grown into her curves, her  
shapely figure evident beneath the lavender silk gown she wore.

  
“Tyrion…” she breathed. In his suit of black and red armour, Tyrion Lannister stood tall as any  
knight. He had not grown, and yet he had in so many other ways. “Come inside, my lady. No  
harm will come to you on my watch.”

  
Sansa exchanged a look with an older man at her side, whose arm she was threating to tear off  
with the grip she possessed. Petyr Baelish. How long had it been since he wished Littlefinger  
would drown at sea? Tyrion had expected the sly cat to still be prowling and sneaking hidden in  
the shadows, but he had not expected to see him beside Sansa Stark. Oh, but he was clever. A  
master juggler was Petyr Baelish. Nothing was beyond the hungry mockingbird. Tyrion recalled  
how he had asked Lord Tywin to marry the girl himself, but his birth had been too low. Tyrion  
opened the flap to his expansive tent, and gestured for them to come inside.

  
Petyr Baelish guided Sansa inside. Tyrion waddled over to his small throne, and poured himself a  
goblet of sour red. He offered some to Sansa and Littlefinger, but they both declined. Sansa was  
seated across him, the carved desk separating them. And although a second chair was procured,  
Littefinger made no move to abandon the sweet lady’s side. There was a certain tension in the air.

  
Tyrion knew why. By the laws of the Seven, they were still husband and wife, a prospect that  
never enticed either of them. Once, Tyrion had hoped to love her, but he knew those days were  
long gone, and Sansa had no doubt taken some other man as her lover. No, he mused. She is far  
too courteous and decent to take another man into her bed.

  
Sansa was watching him. He gave her a wry smile. “Targaryen?,” the sweet voice spoke.

  
Tyrion laughed. “Ah, my lady. Where have you been hiding since we were separated and went  
off our own ways? Do the singers not preach of how the fearsome Lord Tywin’s wretched dwarf  
son had cause to be hated by his father? I am no son of Lannister. King Aerys in all his madness  
made sure of that when he raped my mother.” It was a rude way to speak, one she would not  
appreciate.

  
Sansa gasped, and Littlefinger’s eyes narrowed. “Yes,” Tyrion said, taking a sip of wine. “Did  
you not hear the stories of how Mad King Aerys would take liberties with Joanna Lannister when  
Tywin was his Hand.” Tywin. He had never been his son. His father had reason to hate him all  
along.

  
Sansa frowned. He could not discern what the little wolf was thinking. In the years that passed,  
she had become excellent at hiding her true feelings. Though he supposed she was always good at  
it, pretending to love Joffrey. Lady Stark, you may survive us yet. “What happened to Daenerys?,”  
she asked.

  
“Dead. Long before her time. The Dothraki that rose her to fame, ended it as well,” he stated  
plainly. Tyrion took another sip of wine. He had heard the rumours of the banner of the direwolf  
and four massive armies uniting. But, he expected to see the bastard of Winterfell who had risen to  
Lord Commander in only two years. The quiet boy he had advised long ago. Never forget who  
you are you, for surely the world will not. Wear it like armour, and it can never be used to hurt  
you. “I had heard tales of a Stark conquering Westeros. Though I expected it was lore. The last  
thing I expected when my ships landed was to be met by an army that was not my sisters. Let  
alone Lady Sansa Lannister.”

  
She winced at the name. He expected as much. By the laws of the Seven she was still married to  
him. “Oh, not proud to call yourself by that name? I confess, neither do I. Sansa Targaryen, then?”

  
Sansa pursed her lips into a thin line and Littlefinger stiffened beside her, yet Tyrion let out a  
hearty laugh. There was something going on between the two of them, he could sense it. “Still as  
solemn as ever, my lady. No matter. Though I do confess, what on earth are you doing with  
Littlefinger?”

  
Sansa held her head high, and entwined her fingers through Lord Baelish’s. “He is my lord  
husband.”

  
Tyrion raised his eyebrows. The man was an enigma. Sansa looked so like her lady mother,  
Tyrion wondered if he thought he married Catelyn Tully instead. He played with the edge of his  
wine cup. “By force or assent?”

  
Sansa straightened her back. Where had the frightened little girl he knew run off to? This radiant  
woman in front of him showed no hesitation or fear as she spoke, only confidence and clarity in  
her words. “They call me Queen of the Winter now, Lord Tyrion. After I took back my family’s  
seat, I conquered five of the nine kingdoms. I married Lord Petyr in the Isle of Faces before the  
old gods. Our marriage is valid.”

  
Tyrion smirked. No doubt it was consummated, unlike ours. “No love for your first husband  
then?”

  
Sansa sat up straighter, placing her hands on her lap. “Tyrion, I will never forget your friendship  
and how much kindness you showed me in King’s Landing. But, I did not love you then and I do  
not love you now. You were kind to me…But, fate had another plan for us. You and I were false  
kingslayers, doomed to death by Cersei. And yet here we stand, King and Queen in our own  
right.”

  
Tyrion shrugged. “I am merely jesting, my lady. You have to forgive my humour, it has grown  
increasingly sarcastic.” He raised his goblet to Petyr. “Finally learned to love someone other than  
yourself?”

  
Littlefinger scowled, an expression that did not go unnoticed by Sansa. She frowned, then stood to  
whisper in his ear. His sly eyes flashed with annoyance, then he gave Tyrion a warning glance,  
and opened the flap of the tent and departed, leaving Sansa and Tyrion alone.

  
Sansa clasped her hands before her and flashed Tyrion a smile. He wondered how many men she  
had entranced. “We are not enemies, you and I. Nor do I wish for us to be. Why did you return to  
Westeros again, Tyrion? You never liked King’s Landing, you said so many times… Why come  
back when you had a chance to start a new life?”

  
“Why re-emerge when you could have stayed hidden in the shadows and safe, my lady?” he  
pointed out.

  
Sansa remained unperturbed. “To avenge my family. And bring those who have wronged me to  
justice. I planted Walder Frey’s head on a spike. Next will be your sister’s. ”

  
He raised his goblet to her. “You and I have common goals then…and what do you want Sansa?”

  
She smirked. Tyrion could not believe it, when had she learned to do that? Perhaps, Lord Baelish  
had rubbed off on her in more ways than one. The she-wolf slowly approached him, her slender  
fingers trailing over the dark polished wood of the desk, until she was only an arm’s length from  
Tyrion. “To be Queen.”

  
Lord Tyrion raised his cup to her. Was she seducing him? “You would have been a lovely Queen  
had Joffrey the sense to love you.”

  
Sansa smiled, a faraway look in her steel blue eyes. “I will be Queen someday... I told myself that  
night after night until I stopped believing it. I drowned in sorrow and despair and all my nights  
were filled with dread. Joffrey was a monster. He destroyed a part of me I shall never reclaim  
again.” She stared at a red cushion. “Though perhaps that is for the better…”

  
“War turns even the purest of us,” Tyrion mused.

  
Sansa nodded, and moved away from him. “I learned to my sorrow that life was not a song. I  
thought I would never be happy again… But, I found it with Petyr. He showed me I could avenge  
my family and reclaim my home. We raised armies together. From the Eyrie to Harrenhal, he has  
been my strength. I spent a year and a half raising armies and fighting my enemies. What have you  
done to deserve the throne?”

  
It was a challenge, he understood. A test to see what he would say. He set his wine goblet on the  
table with a soft thud and clasped his hands. “I have the right family name.”

  
Sansa smirked again. “Forgive me, my lord. You were Tyrion, son of Tywin, your entire life. Do  
you really think the high lords would back you as Tyrion Targaryen now?” He looked at her  
thoughtfully. Probably not, he thought. I was a despised little fellow here. They would mock me  
and likely betray me behind my back. Unless I roast half the country to death. The thought was  
amusing, but Tyrion was not a cruel man. He held his tongue as she continued. “Those days are  
gone. The Targaryens, the Baratheons, the Dustins, Boltons, Freys and countless others have been  
wiped off the face of history. Wouldn’t you rather rule Essos?”

  
Tyrion laughed. That was exactly his plan after he killed his wretched sister. The absurdity of the  
whole thing amused him greatly. “The disgraced daughter and demon monkey. Two of the most  
friendless people in King’s Landing. Great things have happened to us.” He twirled an onyx ring  
around his little finger. “Though I confess, I have done very little to claim my right as King. That  
was Daenerys. This is her army, her ships and her dragons.”

  
A soft expression came over those Tully blue eyes. He wondered if she would have preferred it.  
Two female queens uniting as one. A Queen in the North, and a Queen in the South. A song of  
ice and fire. “Would she have made a good Queen?” Sansa whispered.

  
Tyrion shook his head slowly, his mismatched eyes focusing on her face. “I once advised her to  
stay in Mereen, and take control over Slaver’s Bay. Westeros would not accept her. She was a  
child, just like you are. She had very few people to advise her who knew the ways of Westeros.

  
Except the one man who loved her, Jorah Mormont. Though he is gone too...” He reached over  
and held her slender hand. You must eat, my lady. He had cared for her even then. She had gained  
weight, and look healthy and radiant, a picture of good health. He only hoped Littlefinger  
deserved his lovely wife.

  
“I will not make you a queen, Sansa. You have already done so yourself. And you are more fit to  
rule this realm than Daenerys was…You are right about one thing though. We have a common  
goal. My wretched sister cannot sit protected in those castle walls for months. Combined we are  
stronger.”

  
Sansa smiled at him. “Are you suggesting we crush our former tormentor together?”

  
“Precisely, my lady.” He laughed. Then, his look darkened. “Are you truly happy with  
Littlefinger, Sansa? You have confessed as much. But, I cannot help but wonder at the absurdity  
of it all. He loved your mother. He once asked Cersei to marry you. He is not a good man…”

  
“There are stranger relationships, my lord. Your brother and sister for instance.”

  
Her eyes challenged him, and Tyrion let out a low chuckle. “No one can ever be stranger than  
them. But, do you truly love him?”

  
Sansa’s eyes shone with pride. “With all my heart.”

  
“This shall take some getting used to. Though I suppose time changes us all.” Tyrion stood and  
offered his hand to her. Sansa took it gladly and smiled. It reminded her of the times they walked  
through the gardens of the Red Keep together. A thought passed through his mind. “I say. What  
ever happened to my big brother?”

  
Sansa smiled. “Jaime? Oh, I would not worry about him, my lord. He is in capable hands.” Her  
tone held an amusing tone, and Tyrion did not take Sansa as someone who felt joy at the prospect  
of humiliating others. He imagined Jaime sworn to her service, finally redeeming himself for all  
his past sins.

  
They emerged from the tent together, hand in hand. Littlefinger looked at his lady wife  
questioningly. A fat man with white whiskers he did not recognize looked concerned, then  
shocked as his eyes settled on Tyrion’s small form. Tyrion ignored him, and turned his attention to  
Lord Baelish. “So Littlefinger, we work together once more,” boomed Tyrion in his overconfident  
voice.

  
The sly cat smirked. “A notion I never thought would come to pass again, dwarf.”

  
Tyrion rubbed his hands together. “Oh come now, I have lent my support to your dear little wife.

  
We are to join forces.”

  
If Lord Baelish looked surprised, he did not show it. Tyrion continued. “She is to be Queen of the  
Seven Kingdoms. Did you ever think Ned Stark’s little girl would rule over us all when you were  
scheming and plotting?” Lord Baelish frowned. Sansa laughed lightly and clasped Littlefinger by  
the elbow, planting a kiss on his cheek, then moved him to the side and whispered in his ear. He  
laughed lightly as she fixed his mockingbird pin. Sansa stood aside as Littlefinger approached him  
in slow, sauntering steps. “So, dwarf. I suppose you have a plan up your short sleeves?”

  
“A mighty fantastic plan indeed,” said Tyrion, his hands on his hips. The dragons were circling  
overhead, their cries filling the air.

  
“Does it involve wildfire again?”

  
Tyrion smirked. “No Littlefinger, something far more impressive. Dragon fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, hey Tyrion!  
> Omg the next two chapters are my fav. I'm so excited to share them with you guys.  
> Let me know what you think!  
> BTW, thank you for over 8200 views and 290+ comments. When I first started this  
> fic, I would have been fine with half that :) you guys rock <3


	47. Maiden, Warrior, Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SOME OF THE QUOTES IN THIS CHAPTER BELONG TO GRRM. ALL  
> CHARACTERS AND LOCATIONS BELONG TO GRRM.

Her father’s eyes had closed forever. It was her look they flinched from now. Her frown they  
feared. She was a lioness of Casterly Rock. And a lioness did not cringe. Queen Cersei Lannister  
laughed as the sounds of steel hitting steel banged in the near distance, and a roar shook dust from  
the aging walls. They will all burn. Just as everyone who defied her. Dead and burning, every last  
one. The treacherous Tyrells, Loras and Margaery. Taena Merryweather and her wretched  
family. The old food Pycelle. Her traitor of an uncle, Kevan. Varys, who she found hiding and  
lurking in the walls. All of them. Along with all their plots and schemes and betrayals. It was her  
castle now. Her kingdom. All hers.

  
The sound of screams sounded in the distance, and Cersei pushed her way through the halls of the  
Red Keep. Ser Boros Blount was running after her, struggling to match her pace. Fools all of  
them, every last one. Men were all weak. They all failed her. Cersei would have made a better  
man than the whole lot of them combined. Meryn Trant was dead, killed in Braavos. Aerys  
Oakeart and Balon Swann had failed Myrcella, sweet sweet Myrcella. He was the last one left.

  
“Your Grace, we should flee the city while we still have the chance,” Ser Boros muttered.  
Coward. He was a coward all along. She turned abruptly, and pushed him away from her.

  
Surprised, Ser Boros tripped backwards with a look of astonishment on his face.

  
Cersei’s green eyes were filled with fury. “Leave! I have no use for you.” He stared at her as if  
she were mad, then started running in the opposite direction. She smirked. There was no escape.

  
The little Targaryen bitch had come along with her cursed dragons. The city was on fire. She  
could smell the flesh of men burning and the sound of a battering ram on the south gates. She had  
sent for three thousand Lannister men to defend her, while the Tyrell and Tarly army camped  
outside the city for half a year, waiting and biding their time. She should have attacked and  
finished them all off. Cersei wanted to rain wildfire down on them, but her wretched Imp brother  
had used most of the stores and the little that had been left had disappeared. A roar sounded  
above. There was little time left.

  
She made her way to Tommen’s rooms. Her last son, her last boy was dying in bed. Her maid,  
Jocelyn was wiping a damp cloth on his forehead, his skin tinged red. The fever came only a few  
days ago and he had fallen quickly, gentle boy that he was. Joffrey was the strong one. He would  
have cursed the sickness away. “Leave us,” she said curtly to her maid. The woman fled quickly,  
banging the door behind her. Cersei slowly approached the bed. Tommen’s breath was ragged  
and slow. Cersei ran her finger down his soft cheek. They won’t have him. I won’t let them mount  
his head on a spike. She drew the small bottle from her sleeve. There was another time she had  
wanted to protect him. And at the time, the solution was the same. Even now, he was too  
innocent. Too gentle and kind. And the solution had been milk of the poppy even then. She tipped  
his chin backwards, and poured the bottle down his throat. He did not struggle or make a sound.  
Tommen looked peaceful as his breath stilled. Painless. It was a mercy she had dealt him. The last  
thing she would do to protect her little cub. A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away.

  
Queens did not cry. She kissed his brow, taking one last look at him before striding out of the  
room. Gold shall be their crowns and gold their shrouds.

  
There was a loud crash. The structure of the Red Keep shook, and Cersei gripped the wall for  
balance. She heard steel and screams. Closer now. With all her fury, she made her way to the  
throne room. She threw open the doors in a show. The iron throne stood before her. They can’t.

  
They couldn’t take it from her. I waited. I waited half my life. Cersei had played the dutiful  
daughter, the blushing bride, the pliant wife. She had suffered Robert’s drunken groping, Jaime’s  
jealousy, Renly’s mockery, Varys with his titters, Stannis endlessly grinding his teeth. She had  
contended with Jon Arryn, Ned Stark, and her vile treacherous, murderous dwarf brother, all the  
while promising herself that one day it would be her turn. She would not give it up. Cersei strode  
to the throne, and gripped the arm rest. She would not go quietly. She was Queen now. And they  
would not dispose of her so easily. The sound of armour clanking and heels pounding on the  
marble floor was closer. She wore a deep scowl on her face. Her hair was longer now, loose curls  
almost to her ears. Let them laugh. Even without its mane, a lion was still a lion.

  
As the doors of the throne room burst open, a dozen soldiers with sigils she did not care to recall  
clambered towards her. They saw her, sitting on the Iron Throne, but made no move to seize her.

  
Cersei smirked. Weak fools. They could not hope to conquer a lioness.

  
Then, he came. She felt her heart flutter in her chest, and a sinking feeling come over her as her  
eyes trailed over his armour clad form. It could not be. She had called for him. Come to me, I love  
you, I love you, I love you. Yet, he did not come. He still looked exactly like her. Her twin. She  
was reminded of the days they would stand side by side in front of a mirror in Casterly Rock,  
when they would press the sides of their faces together and cross their eyes so that they looked  
like one person instead of two. Her lover.

  
How could I have ever loved this wretched creature? He was your twin, your brother, your other  
half, a voice whispered. No, another voice said, he is a stranger now. A turncloak. Once, Cersei  
had dreamed that she was the Maiden and Jaime the Warrior, but all this time he was the Stranger  
hiding his true face from my gaze.

  
His eyes did not seem apologetic. What was he doing here? He was the Kingslayer. Slayer of the  
Mad King, Aerys Targaryen. Why would Daenerys Targaryen keep him alive? Her eyes moved  
through the crowd of people assembling, and she found the twisted, spiteful face of her little  
brother. The valonqar. He has come for me. Her fists clenched as the fury threatened to explode  
from within her. She wanted to lunge at him and snap his fat little neck. His mismatched eyes  
leered at her. I had him too. I should have had him killed. He was scared of me. Scared I would  
kill him. Fool. He is still afraid. But, then her eyes searched for the tell-tale silver hair, but found  
flaming red and eyes of blue ice. No, it cannot be.

  
Sansa Stark. The little dove. Only she was a dove no longer. I should have thrown her in the  
black cells and ripped her bowels out, she cursed silently. She felt a rage building inside her. I  
made her my own daughter, despite her traitor’s blood. Housed, clothed and fed her. Bedecked  
her in jewels and gave her my protection. She shared my hearth and my hall, and played with my  
own children. She spoke sweet words to them all. A little fool. Cersei tried to strip her of her  
ignorance, and she had repaid her kindness with Joffrey’s blood.

  
Sansa, the little she-wolf. She should have known all along. It was not Margaery. Many had called  
the little queen pretty, but her looks were plain. Brown hair and doe brown eyes, no different from  
a peasant girl in her prime. The voice of Old Maggy entered her mind. Until there comes another,  
younger and more beautiful, to cast you down and take all that you hold dear. She should have  
known. It was her all along. She was staring her in the face for the longest time, right under her  
nose. Sansa was the younger and more beautiful queen. She had blossomed. Her long auburn hair  
shone like copper in the light, her ice blue eyes twisting a knot in her stomach. She had once been  
lank and skinny, probably from her lack of appetite and grief. But now her figure was full. Under  
the rich purple gown, Cersei could see her full-breasts and shapely figure. Her skin was porcelain  
and unmarred. She was a vision, she realized. How I hate her. Sansa’s face was expressionless,  
but her eyes were only for Cersei. Cersei scowled. Sansa took everything away from her. Her  
sons. Her daughter. Her father. Her cursed brother and the golden handsome fool. She took away  
her kingdom, and did it will grace and courtesy.

  
A voice sounded in her mind. The sniffy old voice of Pycelle. She is a sweet thing now Your  
Grace, but in ten years who knows what reasons she may hatch!

  
The girl is innocent Your Grace, she should be given a chance to prove her loyalty. Littlefinger.  
Her eyes flashed to his pointy beard, more speckled with grey than before. He wore the finery that  
befitted a king. Crimson doublet, speckled with gold. Her colours. The colours of House  
Lannister. He was mocking her. A mockingbird, how appropriate…for a self-made man with so  
many songs to sing. Cersei’s loud laughter boomed throughout the hall, and the soldiers turned to  
face her confused. Petyr Baelish smirked. He had played her for the biggest fool. She trusted him.

  
She wanted him back. The crown’s finances were a mess, and she had missed his scheming and  
sneaking around. Her father had trusted him. Raised him to a great lordship. And he played the  
double card. He was singing songs to all of them, but he sang the sweetest song to the little dove.

  
When Cersei first saw Tyrion she thought he and his little wife had schemed their way to the top  
and conquered together. But, no.

  
Cersei had heard the rumours of a great army approaching from the North. She had the rumours of  
the trout and the falcon uniting together with the wolf. She had sent a man to kill Ned Stark’s  
bastard son, but never received a letter. All around, reports came in of the direwolf banner flying  
proud and high. She had heard her name. But, refused to believe it. It was a lie. Sansa was too  
meek, too foolish and gentle to raise armies to her side. Then, she saw the dragons flying  
overheard, the great winged shadow. Her fears were coming true. And little Sansa was forgotten.

  
Not so little anymore.

  
Her brother, great golden fool that he was, stood by her side. He has a new Queen, she realized.

  
All the years we spent together hoping and dreaming have led to this. Tears filled the back of her  
throat. Jaime betrayed me. My other half. Cersei saw the evil dwarf’s eyes go wide, and she  
pushed the tears away. And when your tears have drowned you, the valonqar shall wrap his  
hands about your pale white throat and choke the life from you. I will not cry. If no tears fall, the  
prophecy will not come true. Cersei planted her feet firmly on the ground, and scowled.

  
The room was eerily quiet, and suddenly all eyes were on the little dove. Sansa made no move,  
only continued to stare at Cersei. Cersei wanted to shake her, the quiet was so loud. She wanted  
Sansa to laugh, scream, cry, anything but the expressionless mask she wore. The little dove broke  
her gaze and glanced around the room. She is remembering. Cersei hoped the memories would  
haunt Sansa day and night. Of how she was beaten and humiliated. Of how they all laughed at  
her. Of how she grew thin and frail and weak with self-induced starvation. Cersei hoped she  
would find no sleep in her chambers and her own children with their perfect little blue eyes and  
black hair would die in her arms. Then Sansa’s eyes settled on Cersei once more. Cersei smirked.

  
“Little dove,” she cooed.

  
Sansa smiled. A true smile. And her blue eyes shone with triumph. “Seize her.”

  
Cersei was all claws and teeth as the soldiers came for her. She screamed and wailed and fought.

  
It took four men to restrain her. As they dragged her off the throne, her gown caught on one of the  
swords and ripped, revealing her pale, slim legs. They dragged her down the stairs, and all the  
while Cersei fought to make her way back to throne. They cannot take it from me. It is mine. I  
should have burned the whole city to the ground. Her angry green eyes flashed around the room.

  
Jaime had a slightly pained expression on his face. Tyrion smirked. Petyr Baelish had an amused  
look on his face. But, the little dove had no expression at all. She feels nothing for me. Even after I  
taught her of the ways of the world. I am nothing to her.

  
She kicked and screamed as they dragged her out of the throne room. She heard soft footsteps and  
someone climbing the stairs. Cersei lashed for a man’s throat and earned a punch on the ear. Her  
head was spinning, but she turned in time to see it. In time to see Sansa Stark take her seat on the  
Iron Throne, her auburn hair a halo in the morning light. She turned in time to see all the men in  
the room kneel to her. Cersei screamed and roared like a lioness, but the wolves had already  
begun to howl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh vengeance is sweet!  
> I really love the handsome golden fool :D  
> btw this fanvid really helped me channel cersei's rage:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jthf01N3yvM  
> ONLY 2 CHAPTERS LEFT MY LOVELIES!


	48. Tears

Ser Jaime Lannister moved quietly through the dark and dank walls of the corridor. He was deep  
in the bowels of the castle. The torches on the wall scones flickered as he passed. He was  
reminded of another time, of another person he had gone to see. She’s been fucking Lancel and  
Osmund Kettleback and Moon Boy for all I know. And I am the monster they all say I am.

  
Another time.

  
But, Tyrion was no monster. He was a dragon. When Queen Sansa emerged from her meeting  
with the commander of the large army, Jaime was shocked. Everyone had expected the see the  
silver-haired dragon queen, a girl barely older than Sansa herself. Instead, he saw his little brother.

  
And all the words they last spoke to one another came tumbling back at him. Blood runs thicker  
than water. His father had often gone on about his family legacy, and how the Lannister would  
build a dynasty that lasted a thousand years. Lies. All of it lies. Lord Tywin’s legacy was a lie. But,  
Jaime left no hatred for Tyrion. He had come with an apology then. And he had come with an  
apology now. As his green eyes met his little brother’s mismatched one, for a second he was  
afraid. Did he want him dead? What use was a cripple to a Queen? His little brother was talented  
and useful. Tyrion had more wit than Littlefinger, but less cunning. Sansa Stark stood back  
serenely while Tyrion approached him, a look of grief on his face. They had hesitated, unsure of  
each other. It was a miracle either of them had survived the years of war. A cripple and a dwarf,  
what were the chances? It was a miracle any of them had. Except perhaps Petyr Baelish with his  
scheming and plotting. Even Sansa Stark was thought long dead. And yet, here they all were,  
united to fight the enemy. His lover, his twin. His mirror image.

  
When they had entered the throne room, the soldiers clamouring ahead, Jaime felt fear rise in his  
chest. He knew she would be there, for how could she not be. Cersei was all rage. And greedy for  
power. To be queen was all she wanted. He had been jealous as she lusted after Prince Rhaegar,  
then the oaf Robert Baratheon, until she realized his true colours. But, Jaime saw a broken woman  
putting on a brave face as he stood beside the Wolf Queen.

  
He saw the way Sansa looked at his sister. It reminded him of another time. Only it had been him  
sitting on the Iron Throne, Mad Aerys slain at his feet and noble, honourable Eddard Stark staring  
at him with contempt. By what right does the wolf judge the lion? Only, Sansa held no judgement  
for his sister. Truth be told, her expression was difficult to read at all. Jaime could read Cersei very  
well. He could feel her astonishment, her rage, her fury. But, Sansa held a cool exterior. Perhaps  
she was reminded of the times Cersei had been cruel to her. Perhaps she was thinking of Joffrey  
and his humiliation. Or perhaps the years of suffering made her feel nothing at all. Damaged  
people are dangerous, he thought, they know they can survive. When Cersei’s eyes settled on him,  
Jaime felt hurt. He loved her once. She was his other half. Cersei was the Maiden, and he was the  
Warrior. But, she was a stranger now. And yet, it was not right.

  
It was not right even after they discovered the lifeless body of King Tommen. His son. They all  
knew that now. His last son. And yet, he was never father to any of them. Ser Uncle, he had  
called him. Tommen was a sweet boy. Cersei had failed him as a mother. She had failed all her  
children as a mother, and they were all dead. Cold, lifeless bodies. And yet, it was not right.

  
As the men knelt to Queen Sansa of House Stark, First of her Name, Queen of the First Men,  
Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm, Ser Jaime Lannister felt bile rise in his  
throat. He supported her as Queen. His family had made a mess of the country, he did not doubt it.

  
But, King Petyr Baelish announced that the executions for the traitors of the crown would take  
place on the morrow, and Jaime knew what he had to do. It was not right.

  
The smell of mildew and unwashed bodies filled his nostrils, but Jaime Lannister pressed deeper  
into the shadows. He held a rusted key, and stopped before a black door. Small bars were raised  
into the upper corner, but there was no light. It did not matter. He bought the guards off for now,  
but they would know in the morning. And he would face her judgement. He twisted the key into  
the lock, and with a loud clunk he pushed the door open.

  
She sat hunched in the shadows, and Jaime found it difficult to see. He hung the torch on a scone  
and moved closer. Her gown was ripped at the end, bearing her pale legs. Her hands were  
shackled to the wall, but he could see dried blood under her nails and on her hands. She was a  
lioness, as she loved to say, and would not give in easily. He slowly sank to the ground, sitting  
across from her. Only an arm’s length away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to kiss…  
Her pale skin was once unmarred and radiant, now it was riddled with marks and scars and  
seemed to have a yellow undertone. Her once long and lustrous hair was short and reached her  
ears in loose curls. Her green eyes flashed with anger. “Why have you come?” she sneered, her  
voice cracking.

  
Jaime sighed. He had lost her long ago, what difference did it make if she hated him? He hated her  
too. Hated himself. Hated them both for what they had become. “I came to see you… One last  
time.”

  
Cersei’s malice laugh filled the small space, echoing off the walls. “Have you come to free me,  
you golden fool? Just as you freed our treacherous dwarf of a brother?” She coughed.

  
Jaime hesitated. “He isn’t our brother. Not really... He is the son of Aerys. You remember the  
stories of how father had to send mother away from court…because the Mad King was taking  
liberties with her. Tyrion was born only months later. Varys told him…”

  
Cersei laughed, her face twisted with scorn. “He thinks he is a Targaryen now? Good. He was  
never a Lannister. Father knew that. Only a great brute like himself could command those beasts. I  
hope they burn him alive…and the little dove as well.”

  
Jaime frowned. “You brought this upon yourself, Cersei. Sansa is innocent of all crimes. You and  
Joffrey made her into what she is.”

  
Cersei coughed roughly, covering her mouth with her hand. Her eyes watered, but she wiped  
them away. “She was a little fool, but she played us all for bigger fools. She is a treasonous little  
bitch. Sansa always wanted to be Queen, and so she is. I paid her with kindness and love, and this  
is how she treats me…no matter, I have taken fate into my own hands…”

  
Jaime’s eyes flashed with disbelief. “Kindness? Cersei, you ripped her gown off and had her  
beaten before the court. You might have seen this coming before you, had you had any sense.”  
“Seen it?,” his twin mused. “Oh, I’ve seen it. She is the younger and more beautiful queen to cast  
down all I hold dear. She will replace me, but she can never be me. As for the valonqar…he will  
never have me. He can never have Tommen. I made sure of that.”

  
Jaime felt his stomach drop. She was mad. They had spoken of her as the Mother of Madness. It  
was not Tyrion who possessed the madness of the Targaryens. It was Cersei. He remembered her  
prophecy. She hated Tyrion because of it, convinced he would lead to her doom. But, to poison  
her own son? Sansa had assured Jaime that no harm would come to Tommen. That he could take  
him back to the Rock and raise him as his bastard son. He would hold no titles and no land, but  
would live and had a chance to be free and happy. And alive. But, Cersei saw it in her rights to  
challenge fate.

  
Cersei began to cough again, more violently this time. Her throat hacked into a violent cough, and  
she tried to cover her mouth, but the spittle came away. It was covered with blood. Jaime frowned.

  
Cersei sneered. “The little dove can’t have this lioness. I will be dead by the morning. They will  
find me peaceful and lifeless.” Her sneer turned into a weak smile. “I’ll be with them all in the  
Seven Heavens. Mother. Father. And all our sweet babes, Jaime.” Her eyes flickered and she  
grabbed his hands. “Come with me, Jaime. We will die together as we came into this world  
together. Quick.” She reached into her sleeve and revealed a small opaque glass bottle, with a  
small amount of fluid left. “It may still be enough. Tears of Lys. There may still be enough left.  
It’s sweet and clear as water.”

  
Jaime scowled. There was a throbbing headache coming on at the back of his skull. Tears of Lys.

  
It was rare and costly, and of course his sweet sister would have access to it. It would be painful.

  
The clear liquid dissolved the bowels and inner organs into liquid. He shook his head. She was  
mad. But, her expression was so eager. I still love her, Jaime realized. Even after all the evil and  
pain and suffering she caused others, even after the madness, I still love her. And he always  
would. But, this could not go on.

  
“Cersei…” he said in a warning tone, reaching for the bottle.

  
She happily surrendered it to him, her lips quivering. Tears began to flow freely from her eyes.

  
She quickly wiped them away. “I must not cry. If I do, he will come for me. The valonqar.

  
Tyrion. He is still our half-brother, Jaime. Quickly now. Jaime?”

  
Jaime poured the remaining contents of the Tears of Lys to the ground. Cersei gasped, and began  
to cough again. A dribble of blood dripped from her mouth to her chin. She winced.

  
This could not go on. He slowly placed his hands on the sides of her head. Cersei’s proud green  
eyes, once so full of life and charm were now filled with fear. She is afraid to die, he realized. She  
is responsible for the death of many, and yet she is still resisting the Stranger’s gift. He caressed  
her head softly, soothingly. He felt her relax, as he slid his hands down her neck, soft as a lover’s  
embrace.

  
A look of surprise fills her features, as the soothing embrace tightens around her throat tightens.  
Jaime still feels his strength with his one hand as he crushes her windpipe. She struggles beneath  
him, but he has her body pinned to the ground. Her breath rattles out between the lips forced open  
by the pressure on her pale throat. She attempts to push him off, but he pushes down on her and  
his fingers close around, impossibly tighter. He will not be a coward. He watches her. He look  
deep into her green eyes, watches the reflection of himself staring back at him. Cersei was wrong.

  
Her tears have choked her. But, he was the valonqar. With one last ragged breath, the life leaves  
her eyes. And suddenly, she is still.

  
The sobs begin to rack through him. He is shaking. Jaime realizes he has not allowed himself to  
cry since he lost his hand. He could not weep for his lord father. For his son. For his brother. For  
himself. But, for Cersei he does. For he dealt her the final blow. The deathly kiss. He stands  
slowly, and stands over her cooling body, blood dripping down her chin.

  
She is still beautiful, even in this state. It would not be the Cersei of his past that haunted him. But,  
this image of Cersei. He would always carry her with him. They were twins. More than brother  
and sister. He had lost his other half. There was already a hole in him. An emptiness that would  
not be filled.

  
“I love you too, sweet sister. But, you were a beautiful golden fool,” he whispered to the dark  
room. To ears that could no longer listen.

  
He moved into the dark corridor, leaving the torch in the room he could not bear to think about.  
The corridor felt darker than his tainted soul. It was to be a mercy killing, but why did he feel so  
rotten? He was a kinslayer. And tomorrow, the wolf would judge the lion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh, I love Jaime so much :'(  
> So, I kinda played around with the when your tears have choked you with the Tears  
> of Lys. My take on the prophecy and I really do think it'll be Jaime tbh in canon  
> We're on the final page...


	49. Labour of My Love

“Sweetling?” called her lord husband.

  
Sansa was hunched over a chamber pot. Her throat burned. Her stomach felt raw. She breathed in  
slowly until the wave of nausea passed. She stood carefully. The Red Queen was bedecked in a  
gown of ivory silk, her long auburn hair spun into a plaited braid, weaved with pearls and  
diamonds. She clutched her small belly, and took a deep breath, steadying herself as she gripped  
the bed post.

  
She heard his approaching footsteps. Petyr’s face was full of concern. Sansa gave him a weak  
smile as she took in his appearance. He looked handsome. She had never seen him wear ivory,  
always preferring his doublets of darker colours such as black, grey, green and gold. The  
mockingbird that started the whole tale was pinned at his throat, hiding the long scar that began his  
disillusionment long ago. He approached his lady wife quietly, his footfalls barely sounding on the  
marble floor.

  
He pulled her into an embrace, placing his hands over hers on her belly. The swell was barely  
noticeable. She smiled against him, breathing in the smell she had grown to love. Sweet mint.

  
They stayed like that for a time, simply holding each other listening to the sound of their mutual  
breathing. Two hearts beating as one. Petyr pulled away first, and turned her around to face him.  
He lifted her chin with his finger, a cold ring pressing into her jaw. “Is my dress alright, my lord?”

  
Petyr made a show of inspecting it for any marks. Sansa laughed at his pretense. “You look  
beautiful, sweetling.” She beamed at his compliment.

  
“As do you, my lord.” Petyr winked at her.

  
A knock sounded on the door, and Petyr and Sansa both turned to stare at the intruder. Lord  
Commander Sandor Clegane stepped in, his familiar gold armour and white cloak suiting him  
well. “My lady, my lord. They are ready for you.” My lord. My lady. Many had started calling her  
Your Grace, My Queen long ago. Back in the days when the cold winds were rising and the  
future still held uncertainty and the fear of unfulfilled promises. She had been Queen in their hearts  
long before the bronze and iron crown of the Kings of Winter had been placed on her head. But,  
to many she was still a lady, the heir to Winterfell. Today, there would be no question that she was  
the Queen of the Realm. For another had proclaimed the title of the lordship of Winterfell. A title  
and right that had once been denied to him. Jon Stark, she mused. He would have arrived  
sometime in the night, along with her sister. She would see Arya for the first time in five years.

  
Sansa smiled to herself, feeling giddy with joy. She could not recall the last time she had felt so  
alive. The years had worn done on her and almost stripped her of her essence and very being. And  
yet even when everyone doubted her, she survived.

  
Petyr assessed Sansa once more, taking her in completely. They locked eyes. How many times  
had they done this before? She was not sure when she was able to read his mind, but she could  
see the thoughts running through his head. Are you ready, he asked with a raise of his brow. Yes,  
she smiled with her eyes.

  
He offered her his arm, and Sansa wrapped hers through his. They made their way out of the  
chamber, and stepped into the hall. Sansa inclined her head towards Sandor Clegane, who still did  
not take his vows as a knight but received the title of lord, and gave her a small nod. Ser Emery,  
the gaelor at Winterfell looked handsome with his long blade, beaming at his Queen. Ser Lothor  
Brune, her ever present body guard was there too. Along with men in Petyr’s service from before,  
Ser Byron the Beautiful and Ser Morgarth the Merry. Five other knights, the sons of lords who  
had valiantly and bravely fought alongside her had been named to the Kings Guard. They began  
their walk to the throne room, six in front of the future King and Queen of Westeros, and four  
behind, Lothor Brune and the Hound leading the party.

  
Lord Petyr Baelish. For years he had been nothing. A minor lord with little land and no promise  
of a great future. But, her lord husband had prospered with his talent with numbers and cunning  
and wit. For years, no one viewed him as a threat, and they showered him with rewards and  
favours. Littlefinger was everyone’s friend. A trustworthy councillor. An amusing sparring  
partner. Many men did not see him as an honourable fellow. A man who hid in the shadows,  
plotting and scheming and biding his time waiting for the opportune moment. Steel and arms win  
wars, but a sharp mind would hold the kingdom together.

  
As they passed through the newly named White Keep, visions of the past flashed through Sansa’s  
mind. She saw the young and frightened girl she once was, running through the Keep with tears in  
her eyes, the Hound following close behind as rumours of her father’s arrest spread like wildfire.

  
Porcelain. She saw the girl who built walls around herself as she walked holding her head high,  
despite her bruised body, and Shae trying to comfort her. She saw Tyrion in his efforts to try and  
please her, all the while she wore the face of grief. Ivory. She saw the false smile she wore as she  
complimented Queen Cersei and the false hurt she wore as Margaery ignored her, all of them  
thinking she was a stupid little fool. Steel.

  
The more people you love the weaker you are. You’ll act the fool to keep the happy, to keep them  
safe. You’ll do things for them that you know you shouldn’t do. Love no one. As they made their  
way through the corridors, her arm entwined with Petyr’s, Sansa smiled to herself. Love was a  
surer way to the hearts of the people. No one would go hungry as long as she lived. The people of  
the Seven Kingdoms would live in peace and prosperity, as the remnants of war were wiped from  
the kingdom. The doors to the throne room were straight ahead. Only a few more steps.

  
Lord Jaime Lannister, for he was no longer a knight, but the Lord of Casterly Rock stood at the  
door along with Lord Harrold Arryn, the Lord of the Vale. Sansa recalled the night many weeks  
ago when she saw Jaime Lannister leaving the black cells, and the evidence of his crime. For she  
had been in the shadows, as his footsteps had receded into the distance, and she entered the cell  
and saw the lifeless body of her once tormentor, still and cold and no longer foreboding. He was a  
kinslayer, but Sansa had no twin. Her bonds with her siblings had been ripped apart by the lions.  
She could execute Jaime in Cersei’s stead for taking away the justice that was hers. Many people  
wanted to see Queen Cersei fall, her head rolling down the steps of Baelor’s Sept just as her  
father’s had. He had selfishly robbed the realm of the justice they sought. But, she did not have a  
twin, and could not understand the bond that the two lovers had. Cersei deserved the death fate  
had granted her, she decided. And Lord Jaime was more useful to her alive than dead. Especially  
when paired with a loyal woman. Sansa had released Lady Brienne from her vow, and proclaimed  
her to be Jaime’s betrothed. She had seemed aghast, but with persistence Sansa realized the  
woman was not uncomfortable with the arrangement.

  
Petyr’s grip on Sansa’s arm tightened. She glanced at him, a sly smile playing at his lips. He  
turned his attention to the Lord of the Vale and Lord of Casterly Rock. “Open the doors.”

  
Sansa saw a flash of light as they entered the throne, and the looming iron throne before their eyes.

  
A path had been cleared, as the Kings Guard moved to the sides. Nothing stood between Sansa  
Stark and Petyr Baelish and their prize. Time slowed as he guided her towards the steps. She saw  
all their smiling faces. Every last one. Fearsome Lord Mors Umber. The tearful eyes of Alys  
Mormont, her grief over the death of her mother the Lady Maege still present in her features. Lady  
Myranda Arryn the Lady of the Vale with a look of pride on her face for her friend, her father  
Nestor Royce and uncle Bronze Yohn close behind, as Lord Baelish and her passed. King Tyrion,  
the ruler of Essos gave her a wink. They were all smiling, just like they had been in her dreams.

  
The closer she got to the throne, the more the tears of joy threatened to spill from Sansa’s eyes.

  
The small council had already been named. In the weeks before the coronation, many lords and  
ladies began to arrival in the Capitol and begged the favours from the future King and Queen.

  
Betrothals were arranged. Land and gold awarded. Alliances created. An envoy from Dorne had  
arrived and the kingdom had been annexed to rule in its own right, free from Westeros at last. The  
Iron Islands threatened to spill over in rebellion, and the Greyjoy brothers Euron and Victorian still  
pirated the seas. Their reign of terror would end, for the Master of Arms and Ships, Randall Tarly  
would show no mercy. The Grand Maester Meribald was a pious man recommended by Sandor  
Clegane. Lady Olenna Tyrell was named Master of Whispers. Lord Horton Redfort had been  
named Master of Laws and Justice. The position of Master of Coin was given to the keen eyes of  
Wyman Manderly. And her own dear uncle, Brynden Tully had been awarded the position of  
Hand of the King. They were all there, the people who had sworn to her, protected her and fought  
for her. All the people she had showered with love and received love in return.

  
And by the steps were her family, the most precious for they were the last. The wide smile of  
Roslin Tully carrying her newborn son. And Edmure Tully, trying to hide his discomfort in being  
in a room full of people. No doubt being uncle to the Queen was another fear that daunted the  
Lord Paramount of the Trident. And there they stood. The last two of the three siblings she had  
left.

  
Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell, stood tall and noble. He looked so much like her father, with his  
black hair and grey eyes. His grey eyes were every watchful and observant, and he stood with a  
position of honour at the end of the steps to the Iron Throne. And Arya. Arya Horseface. She had  
not spoken to her sister in four years, and Sansa fought the urge to break away from her husband  
and run to her. Her heart stopped for a second, and she gazed at her sister, beautiful and willful  
and strong, imploring her with her eyes for forgiveness. Arya showed no hatred, and broke into a  
wide smile, mouthing you were right. Her heart swelled with joy at her approval. If only Bran  
could be here.But Bran was always with her, watching over them all, she knew. She would visit  
him in the godswood later with Jon and Arya.

  
Lord Baelish guided her up the steps, their long ivory trains intertwining as they turned to face the  
crowd. The Lord Hand, Brynden Tully beamed at his niece. Sansa returned the smile, and knelt  
before the High Septon. She lowered her gaze as she felt the cool metal touch her head. It was her  
crown. Robb’s crown. The crown of the First Men that graced her head, for she was the Queen of  
the Winter. So, a she-wolf rose with sunset in her hair and steel beneath her skin. Her eyes  
flickered to Petyr’s and she saw the look of triumph as another gold crown was placed on his  
head. The Crown of the Andals. Of the Kings of Summer. The cunning mockingbird rose, with  
the eyes of a sly cat and the face of a proud father.

  
As they stood together hand in hand and faced the gathered nobles, Sansa felt the tears fall from  
her eyes. A Queen could cry tears of joy, of love and happiness. King Petyr held her hand in the  
air, as the crowd of nobles knelt for the new King and Queen.

  
“All hail Her Grace, Queen Sansa of the House Stark, First of Her Name, Queen of the First Men  
and the Queen of Winter, Lady of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

  
“All hail His Grace, King Petyr of House Baelish, First of His Name, King of the Andals and the  
King of Summer, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.”

  
The crowd of nobles began to clap and cheer. Sansa exchanged a glance with Petyr. Life is not a  
song, sweetling, his eyes told her. Chaos is a ladder, her eyes responded. She knew it was not  
over. In the game of thrones, you win or you die. They had won the Iron Throne, but they would  
never stop playing the game.

  
For, theirs was a song of ice and fire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your views, kudos, comments and support! This fic was  
> something I started a few weeks after season 5 ended as a fix-it, but it turned into  
> something so much more. the name of this chapter has a double meaning--the labour  
> of my love. the labour of petyr and sansa to conquer and my love into writing this  
> fanfic.  
> i hope you all enjoyed it to the very end. i will be working on another fic with Petyr  
> and Sansa in ancient greece or rome. thanks again, lovelies <3


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